Intentions Verse 2: A Series of Firsts
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: As John settles into the Holmes family they all experience a few firsts and remember a few others. Sequel to 'No Intention' where John is Sherlock's son. Warnings for discussions about abuse and unusual childhoods.
1. Therapy

**Therapy**

For some members of the Holmes family it is their first session. For others...not so much!

* * *

While searching for a series title, I came across a quote that was perfect for this verse, though sadly not title material:

"one does not love one's children just  
because they are one's children but because of the friendship formed while  
raising them"

Found in 'Love in the time of Cholera' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

* * *

For skeptic7 and youji's suggestions. I was going to wait a little longer to post this but as it's not a "story" so much as snapshots and as I stumbled across a lovely rec by missilemuse for "No Intentions" I couldn't resist!

Thank you to NicolettelliW for betaing this chapter and for adding some thoughts :)

* * *

_**1999**_

_Bella Holmes was a beautiful woman. She had elegance and grace that gave her features a wonderful serenity. It also helped that she had the classical features and colouring shown in renaissance paintings and was rich enough to pick clothes that matched her style._

_The wistful expression on her face only added to the fact that she looked like something from Byron's works._

_A long, slim fingered hand reached for the water glass, her well maintained jewellery catching the light._

_"Sherlock," she said, taking a neat sip, "got the daughter of my husband's business associate pregnant when they were sixteen."_

_She didn't sound horrified or ashamed, more…regretful._

_"And how did you react?" Abigail asked._

_A careful sip this time, as if to gauge her own reaction. "We weren't happy. They'd snuck off during a party and Sherlock was utterly unrepentant about it."_

_"And the pregnancy itself?"_

_Bella blinked a little in surprise. "Oh…a grandchild," she said, sadly and shook her head. "It wasn't to be."_

_"Why?"_

_"The children were too young, the Watson's didn't want to have Anna's life upset…she had an abortion."_

_"You didn't agree?"_

_"It didn't matter," Bella stared at her water. "It was what was best for them."_

_"And your son? How did he feel?"_

_Bella shook her head, eyes wet. "I…I'm not even sure if he cared."_

_Abigail studied her patient carefully. "Yet you brought it up when we were talking about his drug situation? The overdose. You must think it relevant."_

_Bella smiled a little, looking sad. "I don't…" she sighed and looked up. "It's a terrible thing as a parent, to not know whether your son is trying to kill himself with substance abuse because he feels disconnected and doesn't care or whether it's because…" she paused again, battling with herself._

_"Because?" Abigail prompted._

_"Because he cares too much." A tear spilled over._

* * *

It had been nearly six years since Abigail had last seen Bella. The woman had seemed, at some point to accept that she couldn't control Sherlock's actions, nor force him to talk to her. And, without Sherlock willing to come to therapy sessions, there hadn't been too much more she could do.

"Bella," Abigail smiled at her. "What can I do for you?"

* * *

John had something of his grandmother lurking in his colouring.

He was, as most young boys were, the furthest thing from elegance that could be imagined. Instead he sat awkwardly on the chair, looking around at the walls suspiciously while he scuffed his worn trainers back and forth, shifting the fringe of the rug with every move.

Abigail had never met the rest of the Holmes family. Bella's husband Lucian had been a victim of abuse from his father and their eldest son, Mycroft, even more so. And while Bella claimed both had seen someone about it when Mycroft's situation had first come to light, neither particularly felt comfortable with the idea.

Sherlock Holmes simply had no interest in any of it.

It would be interesting to see if any of them men in the Holmes family would change their mind. The look on John's face suggested he had probably overheard some of their opinions about the relevance of a therapist.

"Would you like a drink?" she asked, hoping to soothe him.

John shook his head, then seemed to reconsider the idea.

"What kind of tea do you have?" he asked innocently.

* * *

"Have you ever played a word association game?" she asked John as he came in.

John shook his head warily.

"I will say a word and you say the first thing that pops into your head. So if I said cheese you would say?"

"Smelly?"" John asked, not sounding sure of his answer.

"Football?"

"Sport?"

She kept going. "Church?"

"Sitting down." John sounded a little more comfortable now.

"Red?"

"Danger," he replied with a grin.

_Patient enjoys the idea of danger, likely conditioned to do so from a young age as a coping mechanism._

"Law?"

"Broken."

_Patient sees laws as a set of rules that can and often are bent. No glee present in voice would suggest that it is a practicality._

"Money?"

"Talks," John gave her a challenging look this time, even as he shifted.

_Patient is aware, keenly so, of the power that money can have. His attitude would suggest that he resents those that wield it and the idea of having it makes him uncomfortable. More needed to determine exactly why that is._

"Mother?"

"Fun."

_Patient has an unusual relationship with mother. Likely has grown up too fast due to circumstance and though has positive feelings towards mother, they are not the sort of feelings typically associated with a parent._

"Tea?"

"Mycroft."

_Patient's response suggests bonding with new family. More information required. Once again, would be useful to have family in sessions on occasion._

"Home?"

"Sherlock." The answer was absolute.

* * *

"You were physically abused by your grandfather?" Abigail said slowly. "And John is aware of this?"

"Yes."

Mycroft Holmes sat in the armchair, a practised ease in every line of his body. She'd seen his eyes dart around the room, as of checking it for who-knew-what. Bella had mentioned that he worked for the government now, so his wariness could be a mixture of many things.

Still, an unusual man; there weren't many who would choose to turn behaviour learned from abuse into a full time career that would make the most balanced and settled person falter.

"You told him?"

"Yes."

"Mr Holmes," Abigail chose her words very carefully. "There is little point in you putting yourself through this if you do not intend to do it properly."

Mycroft's face barely changed. "Then I suggest you learn to ask better questions."

* * *

Abigail had spent most of the afternoon working out different types of questions for Mycroft to test which ones he answered best.

"Why did you tell him?"

He actually glanced at the ceiling, though whether in annoyance at the question or because she'd taken his advice, she wasn't sure. "Because he was afraid that he was causing our arguments. I wished to demonstrate that sometimes arguments are necessary."

"Were they necessary when your parents discovered your abuse?"

Cool eyes met hers in a steely glare. "Ms Mcnair, I have had a therapist, far more qualified than you, talk at me about these issues. I was under the impression that I was here for John."

"You are," she said evenly, and then waited.

Unfortunately, Mycroft just smiled politely and happily sipped his tea for the rest of the session.

* * *

"What do you think of your Uncle?"

John shrugged. "He's okay," he mumbled.

"Do you like him?"

A nod.

"Respect him?"

There was a small hesitation as John considered that question, and then nodded again.

"Love him?"

* * *

"Have you ever told John you love him?"

Sherlock Holmes texted.

"Mr Holmes?"

"Busy," Sherlock muttered.

"Mr Holmes, why are you here?"

"Because you are marginally less annoying than my mother," Sherlock replied absently.

* * *

"What do you think of your father?"

John tilted his head to the side. "He's…tall," he said eventually.

"Anything else?"

John shrugged. "Can't really explain him, can you?"

"Try."

With a far more dramatic eye roll than the one his Uncle used, John slumped in his seat. "He…he's brilliant. Really clever, observant. He's like a walking dictionary. And he's important and brave. He runs really fast and sometimes people can't catch up to him."

"What about at home?"

John shifted. "We do experiments," he said shyly. "And he lets me help on cases sometimes. And he makes me get the dictionary out to look up the words he says." John relaxed a little. "And last night, I was watching a DVD and he came and watched it with me. Chatted shit all the way through it," he muttered, looking as upset as a young boy should at the idea. "Then put me to bed as if I were a little kid," he added, trying to look affronted by the idea and instead looking pleased.

* * *

"How would you describe your father?"

"Boring," Sherlock replied.

"Is he?"

"No, the question. It's dull."

* * *

"How would you describe your father?"

Mycroft Holmes sat back looking peeved. "I fail to see the relevance. I am not John's father and I do not have an Uncle."

"Do you wish you were his father?"

"No," the answer was utterly firm and truthful.

"Why? You seem to get along with him well; you appear to care a great deal for the child. It would be natural for you to want such a thing."

"Would it?" Mycroft asked lightly. "How interesting."

* * *

"How would you describe your father?"

Lucian Holmes was not quite what she had expected. She wasn't sure why; she could see his features in his sons, he looked like he fit when standing next to Bella and was tall, handsome and distinguished.

And, in what was shaping up to be a typical Holmes response, he sighed in disdain.

"Evil."

Surprised, she blinked at him, while he watched her calmly.

"Evil?"

He nodded.

"Why?"

Lucian appeared to be thinking deeply about that. "Because he enjoyed it. He loved the power of bending another to his will."

"Do you ever see anything of himself in you?"

Lucian shook his head. "I see the weaknesses he persuaded me to see. And the scars but…" Lucian shook his head. "We are very different people. What he did was in cold blood, what I do is in temper. Frustration."

"Have you ever wished you were more like him?"

"I suppose at some point when I was a child I probably did," Lucian considered it. "I wish I had more of his control. My greatest weakness has always been my temper."

"Do you blame him for that?"

"No," Lucian shook his head. "May I ask, why are you questioning this? I can assure you that I discussed this issue at length and did so for years."

"Yet you did not come with your wife when your youngest first overdosed?"

Lucian looked at the window and for a while all she could hear was the wind outside.

"You're controlling your reactions."

"Yes." Lucian turned back to her. "It has been a while since I have bothered." He took a deep breath, "I suppose, honestly, because I was afraid. It seemed easier to accept that there was nothing that could be done for him instead of…hoping."

"Why?"

"My son and I have never seen eye to eye, not since he was a small child. I made some…error. I've never been entirely sure what it was, but…I hoped that we would have a better relationship as he grew. My relationship with Mycroft improved once we discovered my father's…" Lucian cleared his throat, steeled himself and let out a breath, "abuse. It fell apart again when Sherlock was in his late teens, after we believed Anna had aborted John. Hope…hope has been a dangerous thing to have with Sherlock."

"You've never asked him?"

Lucian shot her an amused look. "Tell me, exactly how far have you managed to get with him?"

"I'm not at liberty to-"

"Has he put his phone down or answered a question properly once?"

"No," Abigail confessed.

"And you're a trained professional."

* * *

"How did you feel when you discovered John was alive?"

Sherlock's fingers paused momentarily. "At that exact moment?"

"Yes." A breakthrough?

"Confused," Sherlock dipped his head back down. "I'm still not entirely sure why Anna killed Frank Burton."

"And John?"

"I didn't know him."

"Do you regret that you didn't see him grow up?"

He fingers stopped and slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock raised his head and studied her. Then, as if unsure, dropped his gaze.

"You shouldn't wear those shoes unless you want your colleague to know you're having an affair with her brother."

* * *

"Why don't both of you come in?"

Sherlock threw her a filthy look as John blinked in horror and shook his head.

"May I ask why not?"

"She's doing that thing with the questions," John said to his father with worry in his voice. "That thing that makes you think she's just chatting."

Sherlock winced as if in pain, "She's a therapist; of course she's not having a chat with you. Do you really think your grandparents feel the need to offload that amount of money so you can have a 'chat' twice a week?"

John shrugged as if he wouldn't put it past them.

"Who would you like to have in with you then, John?"

Sherlock stiffened, looking almost put out. Thankfully John was in front of him and missed his father's reaction. "Mycroft," he said eventually.

Behind him, Sherlock looked like a ruffled pigeon as he himself into the room with a defiant glare in her direction.

"Are you all right with both of them?" she asked John.

She received a doubtful look. "Are you?"

* * *

"We're going to play a word association game-"

"Dear lord," Mycroft muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What?" John turned, his chair drawn slightly forward from his father and uncle. "It's a game?"

They both stared in horror at the boy. "Should DNA test," Sherlock muttered, shaking his head.

"And you didn't think to do that before we started this therapy?" Mycroft scowled at him.

John watched their exchange with ever widening eyes until Sherlock sighed. "You are mine. Trust me. I believe we were both marched to our separate rooms when they found us after and your mother likely fitted with a chastity belt."

John's jaw dropped. "You were caught?" he asked, stunned.

"Not mid coitus," Sherlock defended.

"What does-"

"We can discuss your sex life another time," Mycroft scolded. John blinked, and then screwed up his nose with a slight gagging noise.

Sherlock merely winced at the noise.

"Now John, do you remember how to play this game?"

"Yeah," John twisted again. "Why do you two think-"

"John?"

Resigned, the boy turned back and folded his arms, his father and uncle no longer in his immediate sight.

"Close your eyes," Abigail prompted. When John obeyed, she nodded to herself, seeing the reluctantly curious gazes aimed at them by the two men behind.

They would be intelligent enough to see when a point was proven, despite their stubbornness.

"Chair?"

"Sit."

"Blue?"

"Sky."

"Run."

"Away."

"Family?"

"Fight."

"Kitchen?"

"Experiment."

"Cake?"

"Mrs Hudson."

"School?"

"Work."

"Crime?"

"Solve."

"Alone?"

"Left."

"Hide?"

"Coward."

"Normal?"

"Safe."

"Love?"

John's eyes opened and he seemed to struggle with the word. "I…I don't-"

Behind him Sherlock and Mycroft were watching John with utterly unreadable expressions.

"Damn," Sherlock muttered. The word had John turning in his chair with worry.

"What?" he asked, sounding nervous.

* * *

"That cow," John complained as they walked through the door. "I didn't know the answers meant anything."

"For the last time, everything means something to those people."

"Well if you'd told me we wouldn't be stuck in therapy for the next gazillion years," John muttered petulantly.

"Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not," John complained. "And why aren't you saying anything, you hate therapy as much as I do."

"More," Sherlock replied absently as he stared at Lestrade's text. "However, you are complaining enough for the both of us."

John shot him a look that suggested he severely doubted that. "Is...am I wrong?"

"About?" Sherlock asked, texting back that he would be there in twenty minutes.

Wait.

"No," Sherlock looked up properly and frowned at his son. "You are not wrong, you are simply..."

Annoyingly John waited for him to find an acceptable word.

"...A member of the Holmes family," Sherlock finished, uncomfortable. "It is like a rite of passage to be in therapy."

An odd grin formed on John's face and he bounded off.

Really, the boy found pleasure in the strangest things.

* * *

Next Chapter: Eleventh Birthday


	2. Eleventh Birthday

**Eleventh birthday**

John's eleventh birthday causes the Holmes family to reflect on other eleventh birthdays while John worried about what to do with his presents.

* * *

For Diane_Long who requested these ideas :)

* * *

"Happy Birthday to you-"

They'd rented a hall; mainly because John still wasn't quite comfortable in Sherlock's parents' house and partly because some of the children John had wanted to invite might just be as light fingered as him.

Well…perhaps not as talented in that area. But they'd make some clumsy attempt which would be time consuming.

And it had been a good choice. His son, surrounded by the singing children looked shyly pleased with himself. He'd settled in well at the new school, far better than Sherlock or Mycroft had ever managed at his age.

"You could go down there," his father commented, coming to stand next to him..

No. Sherlock had picked the venue for a reason.

The balcony overlooking the hall.

"They're very loud," Sherlock muttered. "Here seems safer."

"When has that ever been a consideration of yours?"

It was strange, this new hesitant…almost conversation they were having on a semi regular basis. Sherlock inclined his head, ever so slightly in acknowledgement. "There are lots of children," he said, slightly hating the small talk.

"It's good to see," his father said.

What was he meant to do with that? Tapping his fingers on the rail, Sherlock watched John as he blew out the cake his mother had bought.

Eleven years old.

"Seems like yesterday it was you turning eleven," his father tried gently.

"I don't recall it being like this," Sherlock muttered.

"Is it a bad memory for you?"

No. Not bad. "Different," Sherlock said eventually.

Strangely, his father seemed to relax greatly after hearing that.

* * *

_It was a sight that made him smile, no matter the fact that he'd been at the office late, preparing the presentation. His sons, in front of the fire; Sherlock's dark, unruly hair was bowed with Mycroft's straighter, silkier locks as Mycroft explained what they were both pouring over._

_Next to him, Bella handed him a coffee. "Dinner will be in an hour," she said, leaning against him._

_With a nod, he accepted the cup and wound an arm around her. "What are they looking at?"_

"_Mycroft found an ancient anatomy book," Bella shook her head at the pair. "If only we'd had girls," she teased._

"_He looks better," Lucian murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair._

_As if sensing they were being watched, the two boys turned to look at them. He supposed he couldn't keep calling Mycroft a boy anymore, not when he was eighteen years old and about to leave for university within the year._

"_Father," he said, closing the book which resulted in a glare from his brother._

_Usually, he would leave for his study, ensure that he has unwound enough to engage with the family, but there was something so soothing and beckoning about the sight in front of him, that he wandered over and sat with them, encouraging Sherlock to open the book again._

_The result was a slightly suspicious look which faded when Sherlock either couldn't detect manipulation or simply failed to understand the sentiment behind his actions. Within ten minutes, the boy was trying to use Lucian's arm to work out what the diagram was saying, with Mycroft gently correcting him every so often._

_He was almost disappointed when dinner was called._

* * *

Mycroft had been busy at work, (Sherlock suspected purposely so, since his brother had little interest in birthday parties) but he had sent a car to take all of John's presents back.

John, Sherlock suspected, had been so enjoying his party that he'd barely taken stock of what he'd received.

"All of it?" his son asked blankly.

"No-one else turned eleven today," Sherlock pointed out, picking up a comic book.

Honestly?

"They won't even fit in my room," John muttered, staring at it all in horror. "Wait," he looked up at Sherlock hopefully. "Did we have a big gas bill? We can use these to help."

"You are not pawning your presents," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And so help me if I catch you trying," he added, pointing at his son.

"Well, what am I meant to do with them?" John asked plaintively.

"Use them?" Sherlock stared at the presents. "I don't know," he muttered, "You chose to have this party."

* * *

"I think the cake went down well," Bella announced as they stepped through the doorway. "Did you see John's face? I thought his eyes were about to pop right out."

"Chocolate cake will do that to young boys," Lucian smiled. "It was nice to see him having fun."

She turned to him, thoughtfully. "He did, didn't he?"

Suddenly, oddly sad, she pulled off her gloves, knowing Lucian was watching her carefully.

"Bella?"

"I just," she turned back to him. "I wish…I always worried that we did something wrong with them. I know they weren't sociable as children, but…I just wanted them to look like that. At ease and mischievous."

Lucian's lips twitched as he stepped to her, tilting her chin up. "Sherlock always was," he said softly. "He had his own way of enjoying his birthdays."

"And Mycroft?" Bella asked. "Do you think we pushed too hard?"

* * *

_The hall was like something out of a film set. Music filled the room and the walls were hidden behind banners and streamers. Tables laden with sweets and treats were scattered around temptingly._

_The children, invited guests were dancing around and flying about the hall, as was their wont._

_Mycroft watched them all with an odd expression._

"_Darling?" Bella asked, not too sure what would constitute as embarrassing versus reassuring. "Don't you want to join in?"_

_Her almost silent son glanced across the hall for a fraction and then back at her. Looking as if he were about to charge to his death, he seemed to steel himself as he nodded and slowly made his way over._

"_Where's he going?" Sherlock asked, suddenly appearing from nowhere and pressing up against her legs like a cat, peering at his brother._

"_To have some fun, sweetheart."_

_Her baby boy pulled a face. "They aren't fun," he announced loudly, turning his head up to her. _

"_Sherlock-"_

"_Let the boy speak," Walter said, picking Sherlock up, much to the boy's delight. "He has a good spirit to him."_

_It didn't escape Bella's notice that her father-in-law glanced over at Mycroft as he said it. Bella forced herself to bite her tongue, disliking how obvious he made it that Sherlock was his favourite. Still, at least he was very careful to carve out specific time to spend with Mycroft. _

_And it touched her that Sherlock rested his chin on his grandfather's shoulders and watched Mycroft carefully. As if deciding something, he wriggled as if to get down._

"_No, no." Walter easily shuffled Sherlock in his arms, preventing the boy from getting down. "None of that; let the boy stand on his own two feet."_

"_Why?" Sherlock asked frankly._

"_Let him help his brother," Bella said, hating the sight of Mycroft struggling. Experience had shown her that she could do little to help him in this; a mother fussing was about the worst thing to be done in such situations._

"_He needs to learn," Walter said, his voice suddenly cold as iron as he glared at her. "You're too soft. It doesn't do him any good."_

_It was on the tip of her tongue to argue, to finally disagree, when Sherlock tipped his head in between them, leaning back as his hands wrapped around Walter's neck, completely trusting that the man wouldn't let him fall._

"_Thirsty," Sherlock announced, looking up at her as his curls hung down._

_How was it that Walter never thought Sherlock was inappropriate? He seemed to delight in the boy's fearless nature and had great difficulty understanding that Mycroft was simply shy._

"_Go and get some juice then," she said softly._

_It amused her that three minutes later, juice in hand, her five year old was standing by his brother and, in a way that was utterly unintentional, breaking the ice._

"_Can't teach it," Walter mused standing beside her, watching. "Natural spunk to Sherlock. He'll go far."_

_Bella watched her sons. Mycroft, as if bolstered by the fact that Sherlock was there, was far better with his peers._

"_I don't know," she said. "Sometimes when it all comes easily to you, you never learn to fight for what you want. Mycroft knows how to push himself."_

"_He's pushed," Water said in a dark voice. _

_When she turned to look at him, to see what he meant by that, he was already straightening up. "Ah, Lucian. Excuse me, Bella."_

_She nodded and watched him go, sighing when she saw her husband's shoulders tense at the sight of his father. They hadn't had a good relationship as Lucian had grown and taken a different path to the one his father had carved out._

_She shook herself when she realised it was time for the cake. _

* * *

John took one look at his bedroom and started to snigger. Next to him Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"Think of it as your grandparents attempting to make up for ten years of missed birthdays," Sherlock said eventually.

"Were they this bad with you?" John asked, turning his head to Sherlock.

"I am given to believe that grandparents spoil their grandchildren more than their children," Sherlock said slowly.

John mulled it over. "So does that mean you'll spoil my kids?"

Sherlock actually faltered, much to John's delight. "That's years away from being discussed," he said, clearly uncomfortable.

How often did that happen?

"But," John tried not to think too hard about what he was saying to keep his tone casual. "You and mum were only five years older than me," he said, not looking at Sherlock.

Probably wouldn't manage to keep a straight face.

There was a really, really long pause and John was almost clenching his fists to keep from looking up.

"By that point your grandparents will be old enough to be grandparents properly and will spoil them."

"What about my grandchildren then?" John nearly giggled.

He received a swat around the head.

* * *

Two weeks after John turned eleven, the homeless network were being suspiciously pleasant.

It was only when he saw one who had lined their box with a familiar comic book that it made sense.

"John!"

His son peeked around the living room doorway as Sherlock raced up the stairs. "Yeah?"

"I told you to not give away your presents," Sherlock announced as he walked along the landing.

"No," John shook his head sadly, backing away with a grin. "You said not to pawn them. You said nothing about giving them away."

"To my homeless network?" Sherlock asked disbelievingly, "A mint collection comic book is now being used as insulation."

John shrugged.

Sherlock stared down at him. "Did you keep anything?"

"Yeah, the stuff I wanted," John looked at him as if he were being thick. "I'm not that nice."

Sherlock stared a little longer then shook his head. At least it was getting used he supposed. "Next time tell me, I've been bribing them with money for the past week. They'll expect this every year at this rate."

John shot a grin at him. "Probably a safe bet to be fair!"

* * *

Next Chapter: Sick Day - Sherlock is less than sympathetic when John gets his first cold with Sherlock.


	3. Cold

**Cold**

John gets his first cold with Sherlock, who is far from sympathetic**.**

* * *

**April 2006**

"Stop it," Sherlock scolded, studying the footprints in his mind once more.

Silence, blessedly, and Sherlock settled back into the mental image. Size twelve shoes, pattern indicating-

Another loud, racking cough jolted his thought process. It was loud enough, and sounded sore enough, that Sherlock opened his eyes to look at his son who (stupidly) was munching on some toast and seeming rather confused as to why the dry substance was hurting his sore throat.

But then, as much as he loved John, he would never credit the boy with supreme genius at twenty to eight in the morning.

Catching Sherlock's gaze, John winced and shot him an apologetic look. When he tried to speak it came out in a garbled croak which made John sigh in frustration and point almost violently at the stairs, then hold up one hand, then point at the kettle.

"The caffeine in the tea will irritate your throat," Sherlock said as he sat up. "And the toast is dry."

John gave him a rather scathing look. "Hungry," he croaked out with a shrug.

"Go and annoy Mrs Hudson," Sherlock suggested and then rolled his eyes at the rather dramatically wounded look he received. "She'll be far more sympathetic," he added pointedly.

The look John gave him suggested that wouldn't be hard.

* * *

"Phone," Lestrade said, walking over.

"Busy," Sherlock countered, the top half of his body through the hole in the floorboards.

"John."

Sherlock glared at the dead rat, muttering to himself. Lestrade sounded entirely too pleased about the situation; it never ceased to amuse the Yard that Sherlock appeared to actually care about his son.

"Still busy," Sherlock hissed from between clenched teeth.

"Sorry, he's currently got his head through some floorboards," Lestrade cheekily replied. "Can I take a message?"

Seconds later Sherlock felt a gentle kick at his leg. Furious, he twisted out and glared up at Lestrade.

"He's sick," Lestrade said seriously.

How dramatic. Sherlock waved an impatient hand for the phone, ignoring Lestrade's wary look.

He wasn't that bad.

"John has a cold," Sherlock announced to the phone without bothering to ask who was on the other side. "It is not life and death-"

"Sherlock," his mother scolded.

Ah. Sherlock turned to glare furiously at Lestrade. "Mother."

Lestrade's eyes widened, then his lips quirked with laughter before he intelligently decided to make himself scarce.

"Really, you cannot talk to the school receptionist like that-"

"I assume you have John," Sherlock cut her off. "I'm working."

"Your son is ill."

"I am not a doctor, my presence will make very little difference-"

"Really, that's not the attitude-"

She continued on as Sherlock rolled his eyes. Leaning down again he held the phone between his shoulder and chin as he picked up the rat and examined it.

"-and are you even listening to me?"

"No."

Through the phone, he heard her long, long sigh. "He's feeling very sorry for himself."

"Oh then by all means," Sherlock inspected the markings on the rats, "I will drop everything to mop his brow."

"Do not be sarcastic," he was scolded. "Do you want to talk to him?"

"More than I wish to speak with you," Sherlock muttered.

There was a rustle as the phone was passed over and then a cough.

"Are you swaddled in cotton buds and drowning in chicken soup?" Sherlock asked.

"Not yet," John croaked. "Give me ten minutes," he added cheekily.

"Are you actually ill?" Sherlock asked.

There was a pathetic cough as an answer.

"John," Sherlock warned.

"Yes," John croaked, "Just, not as bad as it sounds."

"She's listening?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. "I have a dead rat here, it ate the porridge."

"Poison?"

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock agreed and then waited as John's croaky breath sounded.

"Wasn't it a stabbing?" John asked eventually.

Sherlock nearly restrained the urge to chortle with glee when he heard his mother's horrified tone in the background.

"Enjoy your afternoon," he chirped at his son. "Think of it as a punishment befitting the crime."

* * *

The case was solved by eight o clock and, deciding his son had probably suffered enough, Sherlock wandered over to his parents' house.

John threw him an utterly filthy look as Sherlock walked into the room that had been decorated for John.

"Point made," he said in a voice that sounded far healthier than it had at any point in the day. It was still croaky but no longer added to by his son's acting ability. "I've been coddled to death," John complained.

Amused by the expression of woe, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. "She takes sick beds very seriously," he said smoothing the quilt, "No television, no sweets, no spoiling."

"Could've warned me," John sulked.

"It is always better to learn from experience," Sherlock smiled wolfishly. "I assume we will not be crying sick again anytime soon?"

John shook his head emphatically.

* * *

After arguing with his mother for fourteen minutes (the things he did for John), Sherlock was eventually able to bundle his son in a taxi and take him home.

"What about the case?" his son asked, yawning, and then wincing when the movement stretched his throat.

"Solved it. It was a five."

John nodded sympathetically, "Sorry, it sounded like it should have been really good."

"The man had far too many people trying to kill him; it merely confused the matter, there was no great strategy at work." Sherlock said shepherding his son to the sofa. John watched him with tired, amused eyes and allowed himself to be manipulated around the room.

"I thought I wasn't sick?" John muttered.

"No, you're just not as ill as you've pretended to be," Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and took the lemons out of his pocket. "I believe the phrase is 'milking it'."

There was a rustle as John thumped back into the sofa, on the cusp of sulking. Ignoring him, Sherlock boiled the kettle and found a bowl and tea towel.

When he returned, John threw him a confused look. "What's that?"

"A remedy. The forums seemed to suggest that this was the best way to clear your head and throat," Sherlock said as he started to chop the lemons into the bowl.

"You…shouldn't you use a knife board?" John asked, eyeing his fingers warily as Sherlock swiped the knife down.

"I am proficient with knifes, I do not need a board," Sherlock replied scathingly, disliking the sticky sensation on his hands as he finished. He lifted the tea-towel over John's head then bent his son forward until his head was over the bowl and the tea towel trapped the steam between John's face and the water.

"Breathe," Sherlock ordered, sitting back and opening a Russian book of psychology.

"Stinks," John whined, his head moving as he moved to sit up. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock held out a hand and placed it on John's head, careful to keep him in place but not push him forward.

"Deal with it," Sherlock suggested. "The noise you've been making is highly unpleasant."

When he eventually let John up, the boy was lightheaded and dazed, but the noise that sounded like a cat purring when he breathed was gone.

"That's horrible," John whined. "And you suck at being nice," he added, grumpily.

A month or so the derogative complaint would have worried Sherlock, until he'd been forced to go to that birthday 'thing' and realised that all children did it. "That's because I have no interest in being nice," Sherlock replied easily. "Now, you should go to bed and sleep. That will help."

John nodded and made his way up.

Five minutes later, Sherlock followed walking up the stairs, across the landing until he could lean against John's door frame.

"Tucking me in?" John asked petulantly. "I might breathe all over you, then you can dump your head in lemon juice when you get sick."

"You have no idea how dull your ramblings are when you're tired and ill," Sherlock muttered. "I insist you get better quickly."

A reluctant smile twitched at the corner of John's lips. "God forbid I should be boring," he said, sounding more amused than he probably intended.

"I'm glad you agree," Sherlock nodded, then fired off a text.

Seconds later John's room went utterly dark and there was a startled noise from his son.

"So the fuse for your room has been knocked out. No electricity, no reading, television or games. Just sleep," Sherlock tucked the phone away. "Sleep well."

"You…you can't…"

"Can. Have. Done." Sherlock closed the door softly. "Good night John."

* * *

Three days later and Sherlock was not amused by John's blatant joy.

"You are not my child," he huffed. "In fact you are inhuman in your cruelty. Leave now."

John just sniggered and propped his head in his hands while Sherlock's mother swiped him round the head. "Don't say that to your son," she scolded. "He's doing exactly what you did to him, he's trying to be helpful."

John gave him a 'so there' look as he giggled, looking completely unrepentant or worried.

A tiny, tiny part of Sherlock warmed at it; at the fact that no part of John seemed to worry that he wasn't wanted any more.

It was a small part though; he had other, far more pressing concerns for behind his mother's back, John pulled a lemon out of his pocket and waved it threateningly.

Sherlock caught his arm as his mother swept out to the kitchen to check on the soup. "I will pay you a small fortune if you start to feel ill too. She can't smother us both."

John seemed to mull that over. "I think she probably could," he said, without any sort of haste. "And you just disowned me so," he pulled out of Sherlock's grasp with a grin. "You're on your own."

Sherlock eyes him carefully. "A case. I'll bring you out on a case."

"You'll do that anyway if you can," John shrugged, perching on the arm of the sofa.

"You are enjoying this far too much," Sherlock complained, coughing. "What would convince you?"

"But you're unwell," John said, his tone dripping with false sincerity. "I couldn't let you suffer, could I?" he asked, not even trying to keep a straight face. "Oh and Mrs Hudson's good with turning off the fuse if we need to."

"Try it and I will blow the electrics for the whole flat."

John pulled a face, "That's not fair; I don't know how to do that."

"That's hardly my problem," Sherlock sulked, folding his arms as the smell of chicken soup became over powering.

"And this isn't mine," John danced out of Sherlock's reach and grabbed the remote, then his eyes lit up in delight. "Midsomer murders?" he asked innocently.

"Oh, he'll enjoy that," his mother said, worryingly sincere as she put the soup down.

Sherlock stared at his son in horror. "Don't you dare," he seethed, then coughed

John pressed the button then tossed the remote out the window.

"John!" his mother scolded. "What is wrong with you?"

"He hates it," John grinned, settling down. "It's like a toddler watching a horror film."

"Don't be so cruel to your father," she began.

"He started it," John sat up, glaring.

"I was being responsible-"

"You enjoyed it," John accused pointing a finger. "You shoved my head over lemon juice."

"It was not lemon juice. And it worked-"

"Then let me do it to you," John folded his arms, chin tilted determinedly.

He must be ill, had to be because the only response he could think of was a rather pathetic no.

John looked up at Sherlock's mother pointedly who was looking between them as if they were both mad. Rolling her eyes she handed Sherlock the spoon.

And pointedly, Sherlock put it down on the table. "I will eat this if you turn that trash off."

She looked at him, then at John and finally sighed loudly. "I can't believe how similar you two are," she scolded half-heartedly.

They both shot her a wary look.

"By all means," she said, sinking down to a chair. "Continue. And Sherlock, eat your soup."

Glaring at his son pointedly, Sherlock didn't make a move towards the soup. John stared back and then sighed and fiddled with the television. Moments later a bond film went on.

"You aren't old enough for that," his mother scolded.

John turned to look at them both, gaze lingering on Sherlock.

Softening, Sherlock nodded once and then lifted his arm. Grabbing the remote, John dashed over to him and settled in next to him, snuggling back. Cupping John's head with one hand, Sherlock reached for the soup and took a small sip, then almost cringed at the look on his mother's face.

"Not a word," he muttered as John pressed play.

She smiled and shook her head, sitting back so she was comfortable in the chair.

Apparently she was staying.

* * *

At some point the medication must have sent him off to sleep (and the truly unimaginative plot - it was far less interesting to watch a film when he didn't have the strength of voice to pull it to shreds) for the next time he woke, there were gentle voices and John was snoring against his shoulder.

"-move them?" his mother asked quietly.

"And how would you suggest I do that?" his father asked sounding amused. "I'd struggle to carry John up those stairs, let alone Sherlock for any period of time."

"Well, we can't just leave them there."

"Why not?"

There was a thud as if his mother had swatted his father's arm. "He's ill and John hasn't fully recovered yet."

"I repeat, what would you like me to do?"

"Go," Sherlock muttered, pressing a kiss to John's hair without opening his eyes. "Apparently this discussion is about to become irritatingly repetitive."

"Are you sure sweetheart?" his mother asked, suddenly close.

Sherlock snapped his eyes open and coughed. "Yes," he said quickly, leaning away from her, suddenly very aware that he was pinned down and unable to escape them.

"As long as you are," she said and bent to press a kiss to his head.

Oh dear God, this was never happening again. That was it; he and John were going straight out to buy vitamins and fruit and carrots as soon as he was fit and able.

Maybe even before then.

She moved out of his field of vision and he stared warily at his father who looked as if he were struggling not to laugh.

"Don't," Sherlock warned, his voice thinner and far too weak to make the warning sound viable.

"Good night, Sherlock," his father still sounded far too amused. "Are you sure John is fine where he is?"

"Yes," Sherlock tightened his grip a little. "I wouldn't want you to fall down the stairs with him. A cold was bad enough."

His father nodded and walked to the door, then paused as if thinking about something.

Oh no.

Turning, he looked back down at Sherlock and stroked a hand through his hair. "Sleep well," he said softly.

"I'll be having nightmares," Sherlock complained, glaring at the ceiling.

"I'm sure," his father said gently as he closed the door behind him.

Sherlock waited until he thought his father had really gone, and then looked down at John's sleeping face.

"I blame you entirely for this," he muttered, shifting his son until he was comfortable. "Brat."

* * *

Next Chapter: Two out of twenty - John's marks leave a little to be desired...


	4. Two out of Twenty

Two out of twenty

Chapter Summary: Sherlock is far from impressed by John's latest mark

* * *

Author's Note about British Education:

Just to ease British to American confusion; SATS in the UK are an end of year test in Maths, English and Science that used to be taken at the end of every Key Stage up to KS3 (Ks1=ages 3-7, KS2 = ages 7-11 and is taken just before they leave for secondary school Ks3 is ages 11-14, Ks4 is ages 14-16/GCSE years and KS5 is ages 16-18/A levels). These are slowly being filtered out but in 2006 they would still have been taken by John's age group. They do this so that we can predict what set to put a student in and predict their target grades throughout their school career. I have a feeling that SATS mean something utterly different in the US and we say it 'sats' as in sat down with an s at the end whereas you guys say all the letters!

Also (being teacher-y here!) There are 8 levels really before you get to GCSE. Most hope for 4/5 when leaving primary school and that would tend to put you in-line for A/B. (As much as these things can be predicted!)

* * *

**March 2006**

"Who?"

Lestrade pulled a face. "I don't bloody know; someone from the school. I think the more important question is why are they calling me?"

"Oh," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "You have the intelligence to filter calls."

There was a loud, offended sniff. "Have you just made me into your secretary?" Lestrade demanded.

"And you've been brilliant so far," Sherlock said, holding out his hand for the phone. "I'm bored. I may as well deal with the school. Have you ever considered changing your employment?"

Pulling a rather childish face, Lestrade tossed the phone at Sherlock.

"Mr Holmes?"

The man sounded rather irate. "Yes?"

"I am Mr Williams."

Who?

"John's teacher?" the man continued.

"Oh." Sherlock pulled a face. "Why are you calling?" he demanded. "He is at school today, isn't he?"

There was a rather odd pause. "It's ten past four."

Home then?

Possibly.

"Why are you calling?" Sherlock asked again. The conversation was in danger of being even more tedious than waiting for lab results.

"Your son's tests this week have not been up to standard."

It was a primary school, how many tests did they have?

"Oh?" Sherlock attempted to feign interest. "What was the subject?"

Knowing his luck they'd be complaining about art.

"Spelling, addition, his science test-"

Ah. Important. Ish.

"What am I meant to do about it?" Sherlock asked frankly.

"Mr Holmes, I understand you are a busy man-"

Finally, at least someone did.

"-but these scores aren't acceptable. John has great potential and was doing really well, much better than he had been doing at his last school. And now we're back to just under average again-"

Under average? Sherlock tilted his head. That wasn't at all right.

"-and this latest mark. Two out of twenty is just not like him-"

"What?" Sherlock stood up. "Two out of what?"

* * *

John hissed a breath. "Oh," he said wincing.

"Oh?" Mycroft asked, folding his arms. "Oh? Two out of twenty? Two?"

John looked over at Sherlock hopefully.

"You got four out of sixteen for the science test," Sherlock muttered, still more put out by that than anything else. "On biology, John. How many more dead people do I have to show you while a trained mortician explains things?"

John opened and closed his mouth, then sat back. "Most people got eight out of sixteen," he complained.

"I don't care what most people got," Sherlock snapped. "I care that you either have the memory retention of an eighty year old or are deliberately answering wrong."

John blinked, then stared at him and Mycroft. "Well, yeah," he said, as if they were the ones being stupid.

Sherlock spluttered and looked at Mycroft to check he wasn't missing some great, obvious sign. His brother frowned in confusion.

"They were asking questions at school," John said, as if they were missing something.

"I fail to see how that-" Mycroft begun.

"That bloody mother of yours," Sherlock suddenly hissed, cutting over Mycroft.

"Hey," John glared at him defensively.

"No, I have put up with the thieving, the pick pocketing, the fact that you know a better forger than I do," (though it was still a painful topic), "But I will not accept that she has told you too dumb down so as not to attract notice."

John pulled a face, "Don't be stupid, that doesn't make people not notice you."

Sherlock eased a little.

"Being just below average does," John continued blithely on. "I really thought I'd gotten the hang of percentages," he muttered, shoulders slumping. "I thought those answers were right."

Sherlock stared and then turned to Mycroft, needing to confirm he'd just heard that. His brother had sat at some point and was staring at John as of the boy had just announced he was actually a green monster from Oz.

Or whatever the fairy tale was.

"You deliberately answered questions wrong to detract attention from yourself?"

John nodded. "If they get really nosey you have to make them not like you," he shrugged.

* * *

"I'll be back in half an hour," Mycroft said, still looking at John with bafflement as the boy played solitaire on Mycroft's computer.

"Going to get his school books and reports?" Sherlock asked, staring at his son. How had he missed it?

"Yes."

* * *

"Does it matter?" John asked, pulling an exasperated face as Sherlock emptied out the books Mycroft had liberated. "I get the things I know are right wrong and then-"

"Yes."

"I don't see why," John sulked, sitting back into the sofa and folding his arms.

He didn't see why? Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his face. How the boy had managed to miss the Holmes propensity for arrogance, Sherlock had no idea. It was a trait that seemed unavoidable in his opinion.

"I don't see why you are trying to avoid attention," Sherlock replied.

John's eyes rose from where they'd been fixed on the floorboards, still petulant. "Calvin Matthews told everyone I'm in therapy," he bit out after a moment.

"You are in therapy."

"That's not…" John let out a frustrated breath. "Everyone thinks I have mental issues."

"You do. That's why-"

With an angry glare, John made to move away from the sofa. Frustrated by how sensitive his son seemed to be, Sherlock caught his wrist. "What does it matter?" he asked, searching the boy.

"They-" John broke off and shuffled miserably on the sofa, still not meeting his eyes. "The teachers'll ask questions."

"I doubt it. They already know."

Horror bloomed on the face that suddenly snapped up to him. "You told them?" John asked with some disbelief.

"No. Mycroft did." As if he was going to waste time explaining things to people. "So you can stop worrying about that."

"What if they take me away?"

It took a moment for Sherlock to wrap his mind around what John was worrying about. When it finally dawned he let out a long sigh and tugged at John's wrist.

"I told you," he said, cupping the boy's face. "You are not leaving. I will not let anyone take you away."

"That doesn't mean shit," John muttered. "Aimee Cartwright was taken away from her mum and…" John suddenly looked skittish.

Sherlock hardly needed the sentence finished to know that his son's thoughts had turned to his own situation with his mother.

"John…" Sherlock floundered, a little unsure how to deal with the topic. "No-one in their right mind would give me a child. If Mycroft twisted that, than I hardly think we have to worry about you being taken away. However," he said when John opened his mouth to protest, "You also have grandparents who are financially sound and well liked, as well as an uncle with a good job and influence. You do have other options besides me."

"I don't want other options," came the petulant reply that warmed Sherlock's heart.

"Well I don't want a stupid son," Sherlock announced, standing up. "Four out of sixteen for biology," he muttered, shaking his head at the idea again.

"What about the other mark?" John asked, shifting so he was kneeling on the sofa now.

"Hm?"

"The maths mark."

"Oh." Percentages, wasn't that what John had mistaken. "Your grandfather used to be a…" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, relatively sure he had managed to forget that piece of information and doubting that he wanted to try to remember it. "Something financial or something about insurance?" Already the dullness of it was threatening. "Whatever it was. Ask him."

"Do you know it?"

"Yes." Of course he did.

"Just checking," John grinned at him, though the expression was suddenly rather half-hearted.

* * *

Two hours later Sherlock had finished going through his son's work when realisation hit.

"Did you want me to explain it?" he asked, knocking on John's bedroom door.

The boy was curled up in bed, reading. "Huh?"

"Percentages? Do you want me to explain it?"

Despite yawning, John sat up eagerly.

Inexplicably nervous, Sherlock settled himself awkwardly on the side of the bed and ran through everything he knew about percentages.

"Well…two out of twenty would be one out of ten which would be a tenth," he explained, trying to keep it simple.

John's lips formed words that Sherlock never heard as his son tried to follow his thoughts. "Okay," he said, sounding as if he hadn't understood a word.

"It's a tenth," Sherlock repeated.

A worried line creased John's brow and he looked slightly panicked.

How did you explain that basic principle?

"It's-"

"A tenth. Yeah, I get it," John lied, his worry making him unconvincing.

"I don't…" Sherlock frowned, trying to work out how to explain it.

"I get it," John said hastily.

Accepting defeat, Sherlock sighed. "Ask your grandfather to explain it. I'll teach you useful skills, he can teach you how to budget for a sales shop."

"Five finger discount?" John asked with a small smile, relief clear in his voice.

Sherlock snorted, "If that comes up, please let me watch."

* * *

**June 2006**

"That your lad?" Lestrade asked, nodding over to the tapes.

Hm? Sherlock was staring at the old woman's corpse, trying to place the odd smell on her body. He had it narrowed down to three-

"John?"

At the name he snapped his head up and looked about. Sure enough, his son was peering over the tape, standing a little to the side of the small crowd that were at least interesting enough to appreciate a good murder.

Sherlock waved him through.

"Jesus," Lestrade swore and made an almost violent move. "You can't-"

"My son. Yes I can." Sherlock glanced down at the corpse that was mostly face down.

John had probably progressed to stabbings that were hidden by positioning. Besides, Anderson was looking horrified in the corner.

"Look," John almost danced over to him, waving a piece of paper. "Look."

"I can't when you wave it in my face," Sherlock complained, doubting a piece of paper was really that exciting.

"My science test," John exclaimed eagerly. "Look, I got the results."

"Is it important?" Sherlock asked.

John yanked the paper down. "It's my SATS," he glared at Sherlock.

Lost, Sherlock looked past John to Lestrade. "They use the scores to predict their GCSE marks and settings in high school," Lestrade explained with a sigh. "My missus made us get a tutor for Reece's." The look on his face suggested it may not have been appreciated or fruitful in results.

"Well?" Sherlock craned his neck, slightly interested.

"I got a five!"

Lost again, Sherlock turned his head to Lestrade. "Translate?"

"For the last time, I'm not your sodding-"

"It's above average," John grinned.

Sherlock waited.

John's face fell a little as he glanced back at his mark, as if suddenly doubting it.

"It's better than that," Lestrade muttered, throwing Sherlock a filthy look. "Highest he could really get, given how old he is. Well done kiddo." He ruffled John's hair.

John seemed to explode with joy at the praise.

Sherlock gestured for the paper.

It was a table of results for Science, English and Maths. The others were at four, the science at five.

It was such an unfamiliar system that he wasn't sure what to make of it.

* * *

Two days later he nodded at John as he walked in from school. "Well done," he said sincerely.

"For?" John asked, pausing with his hand deep in a packet of skips.

"Your science marks."

"Oh," John swallowed and beamed. "Processed it did you?" he asked happily.

"No, I stole your paper."

John blinked, then a sly look crossed his face. "And?"

"You need to work on your spelling and grammar."

John rolled his eyes. "Can I see it?" he asked, darting forward.

Without a shred of reluctance, Sherlock handed over the paper. John paused as he reached for it.

"You're pleased?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes."

"Grandpa said I just need to be a bit more confident with my sums," John's fingers hovered over the pages, as if suddenly unsure that he wanted to see.

"This is your science paper. He had your maths."

"You got all of them?" John asked, stunned.

Of course he had.

"Mycroft will speak to you about your punctuation. Apparently he's far more patient than I."

John slowly took the science paper. "Remember when you told me you wouldn't take an interest in my school work?" he said slowly.

"Deleted that," Sherlock deadpanned.

As if torn between being pleased and saddened by the news, John opened up the paper and smiled.

* * *

Next Chapter: Stabbed! - Sherlock has an awkward encounter with a suspect, but there is a small silver lining out of it...


	5. Stabbed

**Stabbed**

Chapter Summary: The first time Sherlock is injured on a case.

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you all so much for the lovely feedback :)

* * *

**June 2006**

The suspect was getting away.

Oh, it was Lestrade's suspect, hardly capable of the planning and plotting of this delicious triple murder conducted four nights ago, but he did know whose earrings were on the woman and Sherlock had never been able to resist a good chase at night to get the adrenaline going.

Besides, what the man lacked in brains he made up for in agility. It was becoming almost interesting to guess where he would go next; Sherlock had even lost him for a minute or so.

And again.

He slowed, trying to picture the crossroads. If the suspect had taken a right, instead of-

There was an odd bump in his back that stole his breath and made him gape at the wall in surprise.

Stabbed?

How humiliatingly-

Pain suddenly blossomed, hidden briefly by the adrenaline. It kicked in with a vicious punch that had him claw in front of himself desperately, needing to hold onto a wall.

"Should have left it alone," the suspect sneered in a Glaswegian accent.

"Caroline Moore," Sherlock breathed, trying to keep himself up with one hand and call Lestrade with the other in his pocket. "Caroline Moore did it," he said, not entirely sure the call had worked. It would be even worse if they thought he'd failed to solve the case.

A hand grabbed him by the front of his collar and heaved him up, slamming him against the wall. Then the dull, lingering agony, hammered through, humming continuously now. Waves of greasy back nausea welled within.

"How do you fucking know that?"

"Coffee," Sherlock struggled to see past the pain. "Small outlet in Glasgow. Coffee, personal touch; you know she likes it. More than the jewellery her husband bought."

Bright light suddenly flashed in his eyes.

That had never happened when he'd been stabbed before. Granted he'd never been stabbed like this but still…light at the end of the tunnel?

No. Ridiculous to think that if there was such a thing as an afterlife he'd be going up instead of down.

Far more interesting to go down anyway, he thought dimly as fingers were prised from his collar and he started to sink. It was hot; on his stomach was that odd sensation of hot running cold and clingy.

"-can you hear me?"

"You're very loud," he told the voice with irritation. The wound was pounding hard enough to make it a struggle to concentrate on anything else and he just wanted to fade, no matter how many fingers were clicking in his face or hands were gripping at him, trying to seek out the source of the pain.

Every breath hurt. He just wanted to sink away-

"-John-"

John. Son. Stay.

He forced himself to open his eyes, to check that John wasn't there.

"Baking," he slurred. "Bloody oven."

"Stay with me," the voice was dimly familiar. "Come on Sherlock, stay with me."

* * *

The machines were soothingly rhythmic. John stared at them as his head lay on crisp white sheets, half sure that if he looked away for a second the beeping might stop.

It was to check the heartbeat, the doctor had said. Every time Sherlock's heart beat, the machine counted it off.

As if John didn't know that from watching Casualty and Holby City when his mum had a quiet week.

They'd let him drag the chair over to sit with Sherlock and slowly he'd edged closer and closer to the bed, emboldened when no-one told him off. Laying his head on the bed, he grazed his hair against Sherlock's thigh that was covered by the sheets, suffering through the strange smell that made him want to sneeze. The faint touch was reassuring; Sherlock still felt warm and alive. John had touched enough dead people by now that he could feel the difference.

They said his dad had been stabbed, but that it hadn't been complicated. Or something like that. Smokey Stuart had once told John that he had a knife with a hook so that if he did stab someone it would pull and tear as it came out.

John was bloody glad Sherlock hadn't run into any wankers like him.

A hand touched his hair but he didn't move from his position.

"John?" Mycroft said gently. "Grandma and Grandpa are going home. He'll be fine. Do you want to go with them?"

John shook his head and curled his fingers around the sheets, hoping that Mycroft got how not fine he would be with leaving.

Thankfully, Mycroft stroked his hair once more, and then scrapped a chair along the floor as he pulled up one to sit next to John.

* * *

Somehow, without meaning to, he'd fallen asleep.

Blinking away the sleepiness and enjoying the soothing hand in his hair, John looked straight at the monitors. He relaxed after carefully watching to check that the steady beats were the same as when the doctor had announced Sherlock was fine.

"Do you even know what you're listening for?" Sherlock asked with some amusement as he continued to card his hand through John's hair gently.

"I can recognise a sound," John muttered scornfully.

Wait…

"You're awake?" he asked, turning his attention to his father.

"Obviously." The word lacked its usual bite. "Where's your Uncle?"

Slowly, John pulled back to look around. "Dunno," he muttered, regretting moving when Sherlock's hand fell from his hair. "He was here before I fell asleep." He turned back to a pale Sherlock. "Should I get a doctor?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, and then winced, looking down at his torso. Long fingered hands raised and he hissed as he couldn't quite manage to touch the bandages. "Did they tell you anything?"

John shook his head. "They said it wasn't complicated…or there were no complications when they stitched you back up."

"I assume you're paraphrasing," Sherlock said softly.

"They said you wouldn't die when I asked them. Grandma told me off for asking," John added, still a little put out by the scolding she'd given him.

"Die?" Sherlock said the word as if he'd never heard it before. "Of course I'm not going to die."

"Why?" John asked frankly. "Everyone does."

"I have things to do," Sherlock replied suddenly looking strangely uncomfortable. "You need to be raised before I can die."

John was pretty sure it didn't work like that. Not sure if Sherlock was being patronising or just plain thick, John sat back onto his chair properly and hugged his knees, trying to fit as much of himself onto the chair as possible.

Sherlock watched him, with that odd gaze he got when John came out of therapy sometimes.

"Did you think I was going to die?"

"No," John said. "I asked and they said no."

"Before that," Sherlock cleared his throat. "Before you asked the doctors."

"Well," John tried to avoid thinking about how scared Grandma had been when she'd woken him up to go to the hospital, or how white Grandpa had looked. "Quite a few people who get stabbed die."

Grey eyes stayed on him for the longest time before Sherlock sat back properly into the pillow and closed his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock woke to a fight.

It was strangely disorientating. Usually he was the one involved in verbal sparring.

"No," John folded his arms and seemed to superglue himself to the floor if his stance was any indication.

"You need to come home," his father was saying, looking dangerously close to the precipice of losing his temper. "Your father is fine."

"So am I," John argued and Sherlock blinked at his son in surprise, trying to remember if John had ever sounded so firm and defensive before.

"You are coming home with us and that is the final word on it." His father was pointing now, never a good sign.

He should tell John that one day; it was always easier to win a fight if you knew the signs.

"I am staying with Dad and I don't care what you say," John tilted his chin defiantly.

Dad?

Dad.

Hearing the word was strangely like being stabbed again, only better.

Catching his thought process, Sherlock turned his head to glare at the morphine drip.

That could cause difficulties later.

His father stepped forward, looking as if he were on the verge of just picking John up.

"How long?" Sherlock forced himself to ask, even though words seemed like a great feat.

"You were stabbed yesterday morning," Lucian said, rushing to his side. "John get the doctor-"

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "You go, I want him here."

John visibly perked up and stepped closer, oddly shy in his movements. His father hesitated for a second, before nodding and darting out.

"Come here," Sherlock held out the arm on his good side and, when John was close enough, tugged to let him know he should lie down with him.

"But-"

"Come here," Sherlock repeated. "Or go with them."

It worked. John scrabbled on, bouncing the bed enough that Sherlock had to hide the wince. But, eventually, his son was settled next to him and Sherlock pulled him close, so that their sides were pressed against each other and he could rest his chin on John's head, while he made soothing strokes up and down the boy's back.

Slowly, John's fist clenched in his…hospital gown?

God those things were awful.

"Scared?" Sherlock asked quietly when John hid his head in the crook of his neck.

John didn't move, which translated to 'very' in Sherlock's book.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Sherlock said, keeping his voice even. "I didn't-"

What? Think about John? The eleven year old who had just said Dad for the first time in reference to Sherlock? A moment he had been biting his tongue to keep from demanding had finally happened and he was in a hospital bed, unable to react in anyway.

What if he'd missed it?

"Didn't?" John prompted, sitting up to look at him.

Sherlock just shook his head.

* * *

The word didn't happen again for at least two more weeks. As if John was storing it and rationing it in case he was only ever allowed to use it twice, and indirectly.

And he almost missed it.

He was half asleep on the sofa when John drew a blanket over him. Just as Sherlock pulled in a breath to open his eyes and berate his son for being awake at four in the morning and playing parent, John pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Night Dad."

Sherlock didn't call him back, suddenly terrified that if he opened his eyes or mouth he might actually be unforgivingly sentimental.

* * *

John didn't use it all the time.

In the loud moments; in the light of day and the shriek of laughter or frustration, Sherlock was always Sherlock.

But in those quiet, soft moments, just before bed when sleep settled in and made John fuzzy, or when he was scared, frightened or worried about something, the word would slip out.

"Do you mind?" Abigail asked as John wandered off for a coke. "That he calls you Sherlock?"

"No," he said. And for the first time the answer was true, because the other word was just between them, when they needed it.

And was all the more precious because of it.

* * *

To all of you who wanted John to call Sherlock 'Dad' :)


	6. Danger Night

Danger Night

In the wake of his injury, Sherlock struggles with his bad moods and boredom.

For those of you who wanted angst!

Warnings for drug use and the effects of that.

* * *

**July 2006**

He was crawling up the walls.

The injury was at the point where it was no longer new and interesting, but rather limiting and slow. Doing anything was an effort and while his mother offered to help, being stuck with her all day would make him slit his wrists just for a way to escape. Thankfully she and his father had gone on their yearly holiday to Florence with friends and were less able to annoy him now that they were a plane journey away.

The only interesting thing he had was when Lestrade popped in with a few old cold cases (which was becoming less and less frequent given Sherlock's moods) and when John came home from school.

He'd taken to phoning up random people, just to yell at them and relieve his frustrations rather than take them out on John. All too often he saw the defensive tilt to John's shoulders as he braced himself for the vitriol that poured from Sherlock's pain and boredom.

Venturing out had been good. It had been painful and he'd felt as shaky as a colt, but he'd seen people; boring, dull inane people going about their daily lives and he'd ripped into them.

It had helped a little. But it had also reminded him of how uninteresting the world could be; how pointless.

"Sherlock?" John's voice echoed as he rushed up the stairs. Moments later his son, clad only in his white school polo shirt and grey trousers came in through the door. "Do you need anything?"

Stimulation, Sherlock thought bitterly. Even John had become routine now, asking the same question every time he came in.

At least this time it was slightly different.

"You've rushed back, not usual at the moment. You've attempted to tuck your top in and smooth your hair so trying to impress and look presentable. Too young for girls-" John face paled in horror at the mere mention of the idea. "-so who would you be trying to impress? You've stomped off the mud from your shoes, trying to appear neater and less boisterous than you are. You want to stay over at someone's house."

John wriggled at the door. "Um…only if it's okay. If you're-"

"Go," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.

"Are you sure-"

"That I can cope without your great attempts at being useful? I managed before."

John gripped the doorway tightly. "So I can go?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him. "Go. Quickly."

John still didn't move, rocking back and forth unsure until Sherlock threw him a cold, withering look.

* * *

It had been a relief the moment he'd seen John. A night off from the worried stares, the hovering. The boy had decided to learn as much about Sherlock's recovery as possible and insisted on helping him with it which just meant he did a wonderful impression of Sherlock's mother's mother hen mode.

Easing himself into his coat, Sherlock carefully made his way out. In the summer light the roads were relaxed and calm; the warmth of the season making people deceptively calm. It was only as he got into the busier, crammed streets that were pounding with club music on the Friday night that the summer light finally left and the delicious darkness set in, with all its dangers and challenges.

It wasn't hard to find a dealer; harder to notice one that wasn't cutting the merchandise until there was barely any cocaine left. He needed the rush, the brightness, the sharpness to cut through the dull glaze that had sprung up with his injury. He needed panting breath and the adrenaline. He needed stimulation.

A quick exchange, made quicker by Sherlock's money and brains, and then finally there was something cutting through the useless cloud that had set in his mind and suffocated his senses. The deep pounding and ringing was like a blade ripping through him again making everything fast and exciting.

He didn't go home. He'd spent enough time staring at the walls. Besides, there seemed something wrong in bringing the drug use into John's home or anywhere near-

He cut the thought off – all too aware that if he examined it too closely he might start to feel some form of guilt.

A night off; that was all he needed. Most parents had a night to themselves every so often. And he needed to restart his brain, to stop himself from flaying open those around him just for something to do. One night would keep him mellow (-ish) for a week and John would start coming him early again without a hesitant look in his eyes.

One night.

He lost himself in the haze of it all. People, idiots, drugs, anything. Anything to pour out the vitriolic poison that he'd been pouring over the flat for the past two weeks and keep it from his son.

Anything.

* * *

When he stumbled back home at seven o clock, his son was waiting for him.

It was entirely the wrong way around. He had wanted to be the stern one, to scold John and see him squirm when he realised Sherlock knew everything about his night. He'd wanted to amuse himself with performing that parental responsibility.

Not be the child skulking in to a lecture. He'd played that role often enough that he could do it by rote now.

It didn't help that John blinked at him, confused from what had appeared to be the start of an angry rant. Slowly, terribly slowly, Sherlock saw a dawning realisation in his son's eyes.

"Oh," John croaked, looking as if something vital had just been stolen. "Right," he licked his lips and looked down.

"You," Sherlock shook his head, trying to ease the delightful jumble and chaos back into sense again. "You're meant to be out."

"I was worried," John said quietly. "You didn't answer the phone."

"I'm not a child," Sherlock spat. "You are. I can do as I please."

"Yeah," John said, swallowing tightly. "I can see that."

"Do not lecture me," Sherlock staggered forward. "I did this…I did this because of you-"

His son looked oddly pale. Why? Wait…the words weren't coming out right.

"I have to…you don't know what it's like in my head," Sherlock tried to explain, leaning his head against the wall, overcome as it felt like it might tip over and off his shoulders. "You have no idea. You could never see the world the way I see it."

John remained frozen.

"Don't-" Sherlock tried to force his eyes to stay open, unsure of they were too wide or not. "Don't judge," he spat, walking forward. "You don't judge. It's them, they judge. They don't try to understand. Do you understand?" he asked, standing in front of his son, trying to form the right sentences.

Slowly, John shook his head and Sherlock bent over, thudding his fist against the arm of the chair as he trapped John in it. In the seat, the boy jumped at the movement, suddenly tense and all wide fearful eyes.

"You're still…" his voice trembled.

"Don't judge," Sherlock snapped out again, the force of his words seeming to make John flinch. "You…" he frowned at the bright eyes, trying to connect the implication as he leant forward and John pressed himself back against the chair. "Tears," he muttered, confused.

Something deep was banging at his mind.

Stop. Now. Stop.

Disorientated, Sherlock pulled back, bowing his head as his hands gripped the arms of the chair and his side ached chronically; the pain starting to centre the rapid-

Come down. He was coming down and crashing as the last attempts of the drug tried to fire random thoughts that were of no use to anyone. Above him he could hear the ragged gasps from his son as he tried not to cry.

Not trusting himself to speak, Sherlock fumbled one hand into his pocket, drew out his phone and thrust it in the direction of John.

"Mycroft," he croaked. "Call him now."

"He…he's in Ireland," John stuttered. "And Grandma and Grandpa-"

"Away," Sherlock nodded. "Florence. Dull choice. Every other year. Call Mycroft."

"But-"

"Now."

* * *

"Sir?"

Mycroft shot Anthea an annoyed look as she approached him in the middle of the meeting. It was going well so far, better than expected and she knew that only in the case of an apocalypse or the successful hunt for tea was she to interrupt.

She didn't have tea and quite frankly, as long as the apocalypse happened after the meeting, the world could hang. He was almost-

"I apologise, but I must borrow Mr Holmes for a moment."

Gerald Matthews, a formidable man in his own right, leaned back in annoyance and muttered something in William Lomands ear. The pair were terribly arrogant and awfully eager to make one grovel for their money.

It was a personal triumph that so far he'd done zero grovelling and was still managing to persuade them that it would be useful to invest in the governmental project.

It reeked of retreating, something he hated to do, but he stood anyway and followed Anthea.

"This had better be important," Mycroft said as he followed her into the room they were using as their office at the moment.

Anthea gave him an odd look and passed his mobile to him.

Sherlock.

With a disappointed look at her, Mycroft lifted the phone to his ear. "Sherlock? This had best be important I am in the middle of an integral deal-"

Across from him, Anthea shook her head at him, just as he heard the worried exhale of breath from someone that sounded far too much like-

John.

They needed to get the boy his own phone; it would make things so much easier.

"I…never mind," John said sounding utterly miserable.

"What's wrong?" Mycroft asked, trying to swallow back his frustration.

"I…Dad told me to call," John's voice wobbled.

Dad? The only time he had ever heard that word cross John's lips was at the hospital when Sherlock had been stabbed a few weeks ago.

"Why?" he asked, eyes looking at the clock. Any longer than three more minutes and he would likely lose his position in the meeting and it would take just as much time again to get himself back to the point he had just left.

John was silent.

"John? Is this strictly important-"

"I'm high."

Sherlock's voice croaked through the phone and Mycroft froze.

High?

Their parents were in Florence, Mrs Hudson at her sisters. Sherlock was still recovering and John-

Pulling the phone from his ear, he stared at the door and then closed his eyes.

"How bad?" he asked, knowing even as he asked the question it didn't matter.

"You need to come." Sherlock sounded as if it were the only thing he could focus on. "You need to come."

A less controlled man might have thrown the phone across the room or screamed down the phone at Sherlock for being so utterly irresponsible and selfish. Tempting though it was he would neither waste the breath nor the energy.

Instead he caught Anthea's worried gaze and nodded his head at the room questioningly.

Three, she mouthed.

Three hours at least.

"I can't," he said, shaking his head, hating it. "I cannot leave Sherlock. Not this. It isn't an option."

"You need to come," Sherlock repeated.

"You need to sober up," Mycroft snapped. "Four hours Sherlock. I will be four hours."

Then he hesitated, hating the thought of John, there with Sherlock in that state. "Put John on the phone," he ordered.

There was the fuzz of a phone being passed over and then John's uneven breaths. "Sorry," he said immediately. "It's fine-"

"Ignore everything he has said and does say to you," Mycroft said firmly, keeping an eye on the clock. "Go out and go to the cinema and then go for a walk."

"But he's-"

"An idiot," Mycroft hissed fiercely. "Go out. He will be fine. He's done it often enough."

There was a strange hitch that told him that has not been the right thing to say. Apparently, as streetwise as his nephew was, he had completely missed the hints that this was not the first time that Sherlock had decided to blot the world with a needle.

"I will find you," Mycroft added. "Do not go back to the flat."

"Right," John still sounded unsure.

There wasn't much more he could do. To stay on the phone and convince John would just mean he was stuck in the meeting longer.

After he hung up the phone he nodded at the door. Taking the hint, Anthea vanished and left him alone.

Mycroft bent over cupping his mouth with his hands and taking a deep breath, clearing everything from his mind but the deal.

Then he stood.

* * *

John hadn't gone out.

Instead Mycroft found him in Sherlock's room, sat on the bed while his brother slept, crashed out and sprawled across the bed inelegantly.

Silently, Mycroft walked over and pressed his fingers to the pulse point at Sherlock's throat, feeling the heartbeat that wasn't too rapid. With an air of annoyance that was lost on his brother's unconscious form, he started to put him in the recovery position.

"Does that help?" John asked quietly.

Mycroft placed his brother's elbow carefully. "It's the recovery position," he said. "It's to ensure he won't choke on his own vomit."

John watched him far too closely. "You shouldn't have to do this," Mycroft said, feeling the weight of the gaze.

"You do," John said quietly.

Finishing, Mycroft pulled away from Sherlock and cupped John's face. "I'm his brother, you're his son. There is a difference."

John seemed hesitant as he looked past him and at Sherlock. "He said…he-" John cut himself off and curled his knees tighter against his chest.

"John-"

"Is it my fault?" John asked, the words bubbling out from his lips as if uncontrolled.

Mycroft lifted John's face to study it.

That stupid, infuriating, selfish-

Without a glance at his brother, he picked John up, already disliking the fact that the boy was getting too old for it. They'd barely had a chance to experience that; the act of rocking a child to sleep or giving an easy hug.

And Sherlock was happy to let those precious moments slip him by.

He was utterly stupid.

* * *

Sherlock woke to ridiculously expensive sheets and a mind numbingly ordered pattern on the bedspreads and pillows.

Mycroft's house.

Groaning in dissatisfaction he turned, relatively sure that John was somewhere-

"Awake then?"

The condescending tone made him turn back into the pillow, his head pounding fiercely. "Back then?" he asked into the pillow. "Where's John?"

"Upstairs," Mycroft said quietly. "Asleep."

Sherlock turned, easing himself up carefully to lie against the pillows. Mycroft watched him, his face unreadable.

The gaze was one he was well acquainted with.

"Don't give me that look," Sherlock muttered. "He went for a sleepover, I had no idea he would be coming back that early-"

Mycroft took his time replying; a sure sign that he was utterly livid. "You knew we were all away, you knew that if something bad happened you would be the only person that could be called-"

"It was a sleepover," Sherlock snapped. "Not a hostage situation."

"How wonderful you know the difference," Mycroft breathed, sitting back. "You should have no problem identifying this situation then."

"I'm your hostage?" Sherlock almost laughed.

"No," Mycroft said easily. "You I want out of the house the moment we finish the conversation."

Sherlock sighed, his mind sorting it out. "John then? Your hostage? Until?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "You don't seem too worried."

"I am his father, you will never change that," Sherlock settled back. "And he'll find a way back."

"Really? After you told him it was his fault you got high?"

No. No, he hadn't…he couldn't have said that to John.

"I believe, from what John told me, you were trying to tell him that it was because you didn't want to keep taking out your frustration on him. Strange isn't it, how your intentions never quite work out the way you want them to?"

"I need to talk to him-" Sherlock shoved at his covers.

"On Sunday between two and six," Mycroft said politely. "And for an hour on Wednesday."

"You cannot do this," Sherlock snarled. "You cannot take my son-"

"I can," Mycroft stood up, suddenly showing anger in his fierce actions as he leaned down to Sherlock. "You know I can. I can take him and keep him from you and you have wrecked things enough that John will not fight it. Not when he's currently convinced he's wrecked your life."

"You're doing this because you're jealous," Sherlock hissed.

"I'm doing this to make you appreciate what you have," Mycroft snapped back. "I'm doing this because despite surviving an attack, despite having John and all that it has given you, despite the work, the cases, all that you enjoy, you still feel the need to be dissatisfied with your lot and look for more. I cannot take the cases from you and I will not take your health, but I can take that boy and perhaps then you'll realise just how precious the quiet moment are, how much you are missing."

"I made one mistake-"

"You cannot keep making one mistake," Mycroft snapped. "Your son was asking me about how to put you in the recovery position-"

"I am hardly going to do it again-"

"Until the next time you feel utterly bored."

"I will not-"

"And I will not allow my nephew to grow up in a home where he gets in the habit of putting up with your highs and cleaning up your vomit."

Sherlock stared at him, noting the firm set of his mouth and the level of his shoulders. A dawning horror was growing in the pit of his stomach.

Never. He would never have allowed that and Mycroft damned well knew it.

"He will not be staying here for long," Sherlock announced firmly.

"For your son's sake, I hope so," Mycroft replied with a steady glare.

* * *

Next Chapter: Living with Mycroft


	7. Mycroft's House

Mycroft's House

John stays with Mycroft after Sherlock's drug use.

* * *

Apologies for the update time - I certainly didn't mean to leave a cliff hanger for that long but I just couldn't work out the last bit of this chapter - so many places to go with it!

Warnings for child abuse both physically and emotionally.

* * *

"Has he gone?" John quietly asked when he came down to breakfast the next morning.

At twenty past eight. Really, did Sherlock have no routine in place for the child? Mycroft had been about to wake him up it was getting so late.

"He left last night, soon after you went to bed," Mycroft said, glancing at the clock. He has managed to postpone a few meetings but he would have to leave soon. "I informed him that his behaviour was unacceptable and that you would be staying with me for a while."

Strange. He could read politicians' faces, negotiate difficult, threatening situations using only the way someone spoke over the phone, but his nephew's face was utterly stoic, giving nothing away. Emotions from the observer clouded what and who was being examined; Mycroft knew that better thananyone.

"He was rather taken aback by what had happened," Mycroft settled for saying as he turned the page of the newspaper and reached for his morning coffee.

Looking adrift, John lingered at the edge of the long table, opposite Mycroft. "Are you working today?" he asked.

Oddly, the excuse 'My idiot brother's had a cocaine binge and needs me to watch his son for a while' was not on the absence forms. "I am. You will be going to visit Chris Myer; I believe you and he will be classmates come September."

"Oh," John shifted. "Yeah…Okay."

Mycroft paused and looked at him closely.

That had been…shyness?

"You got on well with him," Mycroft said putting the coffee down. "At New Year's Eve. I assumed you would rather that than stay here all day on your own."

John nodded and a pathetic attempt at a smile crossed his face.

"It will do you no good to stay here and stew over Sherlock's behaviour."

And, just like that, his nephew's hesitant expression vanished and he looked away, face impassive again.

Damn Sherlock's stupidity. And Mycroft, though he cared for the boy, he didn't know him nearly well enough to handle this properly. Was he shy or did he just not like the suggested playmate? Or did he want to stay at the house alone to adjust?

Or was the boy intending to flee back to Sherlock the moment the coast was clear?

"See how it goes today," Mycroft said slowly. "You will need to get dressed though," he added, looking at John's pyjamas. "And eat breakfast."

More uncomfortable shifting and then John nodded and fled the room.

Had he done that right? Was the sudden quietness and hesitancy his fault or Sherlock's? Or just John in the morning when he first woke up?

Had he been too harsh? Too controlling?

Mycroft took a sip of his coffee again.

* * *

_There was a beautiful selection laid out on the table for breakfast. __A steaming pot of coffee was surrounded by decadent pastry and scones and ripe fruit._

_Mycroft shif__ted uncomfortably, trying not to look at the __Pain au chocolat that glistened in the bright light temptingly._

"_I hate breakfast," Sherlock declared, the five year old slumped in his chair and glaring at the table._

"_Try darling," their mother said, stroking his hair as she sat next to him. _

_The sulking look did not fade and the arms were crossed as if in defense as Sherlock glared at a spot on the cloth._

"_Mycroft?" his mother asked, sighing at Sherlock. "Help yourself sweetheart."_

_Mycroft nodded as she left, trying to sort out the issue with Sherlock's tutor. His father sat at the end, engrossed in a newspaper and tutting every so often while his grandfather was watching him._

_What was he meant to eat? Mycroft glanced at his father again, but the paper was hiding what he had selected and his grandfather had already eaten._

_He should have risen earlier._

_For every selection he could make he could see the potential hazard, the potential problem his grandfather might have with the selection._

_Sherlock sighed loudly next to him, stood up on his chair, reached over and grabbed a Pain au chocolat, then tossed it at Mycroft's plate. He then proceeded to examine the two that were left, pressing with his finger before his face twisted. "Yuck," he announced, sitting back down. "I hate chocolate."_

_Sherlock hated everything at the moment._

_Mycroft was hoping that wouldn't last long. _

"_Eat it," Sherlock eyed the other choices suspiciously. "You want to."_

_Panicked, Mycroft threw his grandfather a look and could see the disapproving frown._

"_Why is there chocolate at the breakfast table?" his father asked looking up as their mother came back in._

"_Hmm?" she asked, sighing at Sherlock's still empty plate._

_His father pointed at Mycroft's plate, "They don't need that first thing in the morning," he said with a frown. "Even if it is the weekend."_

"_I'm trying to get Sherlock to eat," she said, standing behind the boy in question. "Are you not even tempted, sweetheart?" she asked sounding disappointed._

_Oh. Mycroft looked at the offending item on his plate. It hadn't even been meant for him-_

"_Eating's stupid," Sherlock pushed his plate away._

"_That boy knows his own mind," their grandfather said, shaking his head at Sherlock. "How about you have some plain toast. Just for me?" he said with a coaxing smile._

_He never spoke that way to Mycroft. Wary, Mycroft turned his head to study Sherlock's face. With an overly dramatic sigh, Sherlock nodded, still pouting about it._

_Toast._

_Mycroft bit his lip and stared at his plate, still unsure._

_He hated toast. And his grandfather might say it was copying. That seemed to annoy him, when Mycroft tried to do what Sherlock had done to ease matters._

"_Do you not want this?" his mother asked, looking a little concerned. _

"_Sherlock tossed it on his plate," his father said, looking back at the paper. _

"_The boy could have said no," his grandfather said sharply._

"_To Sherlock?" his father turned the page. "Grown men would fail to do so."_

_His grandfather turned and winked at Sherlock._

_As his mother took the plate, he spotted her gaze, switching between him and his grandfather with a frown._

"_You're very quiet sweetheart, is everything okay?" she asked Mycroft gently._

_Mycroft nodded quickly. "Can I just have some coffee?" he asked._

_He hated coffee._

* * *

"How was he?" Mycroft asked David.

"Quiet," David shook his head, looking odd in just jeans and a t-shirt. The only times that Mycroft saw him now were at black tie gatherings. "He was miles away, poor thing."

Mycroft looked over at the boys, sitting on the lawn outside. David's son, Chris, was chattering away from the looks of it while John occasionally nodded.

"What did Sherlock do?"

"Bad habits are not easy to lose," Mycroft said after a pause.

David winced. "John saw?"

"Vividly." Mycroft drew himself up. "Thank you, I do understand it was late notice to-"

"He's a good lad," David waved it off. "No problem with him whatsoever. Damn sight politer than half the kids Chris usually has over."

"Still," Mycroft drew away. "It was appreciated."

* * *

They ate dinner in silence.

"Do you want dessert?" Mycroft offered as the plates were cleared away by the cook.

John shook his head.

"Do you want to go to your room?"

John's shoulders slumped and he nodded looking miserable before hopping down and almost fleeing the room.

* * *

_His grandfather stood over a boy in a chair._

_John._

"_Drink it."_

_Mycroft could remember the smell of that coffee still; so strong that just what wafted up to his nose made him want to gag. And the steam, the threatening steam showing him how hot it was._

_Just as he had done, John flinched back from the cup, gasping when his wrists were held in place to the table, his grandfather looming behind and not letting him push back from the table._

"_Lean over and drink it."_

_Like a dog lapping from a bowl. John, eyes bright with tears, leaned forward obediently and tried._

"_If you could do it right in the first place we wouldn't have to do this," his grandfather said shaking his head._

"_I can't," Mycroft gasped, his tongue ablaze from the heat and his stomach rebelling from both the sudden hot liquid and the taste._

_Three fifty seven. The clock chimed three fifty seven. Thirty three minutes until his mother finished her meeting with the hotel fundraising party and an hour and three minutes until his father finished work._

_His grandfather pushed him forward and poured the rest of the coffee onto his back._

_It was hot. So hot and it hurt. Eyes prickling, Mycroft tried to keep as quiet as possible and swallow back the sobs._

"_Stop whinging."_

_John looked up from the end of the table._

"_Go to your room."_

_His own voice. He hadn't meant it that way._

_John ran from him._

Mycroft rolled over and out of the nightmare, staring at the curtains and the slight gap in between that allowed a slither of light to steal through.

He waited until his breathing had slowed, then sat up carefully, switching the light on.

"You're having nightmares about him."

"For heaven's sake," Mycroft gasped in a breath before he turned to glare at his brother. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock had placed himself against the wall, half hidden in the shadows. "Visiting my son."

"We agreed-"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "I could get in and out of here without you knowing a thing," he said arrogantly.

"How is he?" Mycroft had intended for the question to be sarcastic but it came out more concerned than anything else.

Sherlock looked away. "He was crying when he fell asleep."

Which of them was to blame for that?

"This was…a flawed plan," Mycroft said eventually. "Pick him up tomorrow."

"No."

The contrariness of Sherlock Holmes.

"Pick your son up tomorrow," Mycroft glared at his brother.

"No."

"Sherlock…I had hoped you had grown up just enough that you wouldn't simply refuse to do something because I asked you to do it."

Sherlock flashed him a dangerous smile. "Ordinarily Mycroft, nothing would give me greater pleasure. However," he pushed himself off the wall, "As I am sure you are well aware, one does not simply binge one night and recover the next day. I will need a few…recovery days."

"Mrs Hudson returns tomorrow-"

"John will not leave me ill upstairs." The absolute certainty in Sherlock's voice made Mycroft sigh. "You said you did not want to see him mopping my brow and tending to my needs-"

"That is not what I said."

"I'm paraphrasing," Sherlock sighed. "I have better things to do with my day than transcribe our every conversation."

How lovely to know that in Sherlock's world, he was just a little below sulking for the day in the list of priorities.

"The point," Sherlock continued, "remains. John cannot come home yet. Which means, brother dear," he said stalking towards the bed, "You are going to have to work through your 'issues'."

Mycroft could feel the quotation marks. "Sherlock do be reasonable; with our family that could take decades."

"You fear becoming him."

The words rang between them, never voiced until now. Mycroft refused to look away and back down. "Have you decided to become my therapist? Will you charge by the hour?"

"There was once a point where you could see every permutation of every encounter between you and our grandfather." Sherlock tilted his head, considering. "It was an… impressive talent. Why you chose to waste it with politicians I have no idea."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"And now you see every possible negative way John could view you. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy," Sherlock smiled. "And unerringly stupid."

"To consider your son's thoughts and feelings? How foolish of me."

"You stupid man, you still don't get it," Sherlock snapped. "You only see the negative results of your interactions."

Ah.

Mycroft tried not to let the surprise show in his face.

"Why was John confused when he came down to breakfast and was told to get dressed, to have something to eat and a plan for the day?"

"Why were you there?" Mycroft muttered with annoyance.

"Indulge me," Sherlock suggested, as though that was a rarity.

"Because he wasn't used to it," Mycroft bit out, annoyed now.

"Why did John not want to go to that house?"

To play with Christopher-

Oh.

"Because Christopher lives with his father and that was a little too close to home," Mycroft sat back, closing his eyes.

"And why did John run away from the table?"

"Sherlock, did you go home?"

"Of course not," Sherlock waved his hand. "I had to see what stupid mistakes you would make."

"Why did he run from the table then?" Mycroft snapped.

"Because I make him fight to get a dessert and he enjoys the battle. And you had been staring at him for twenty minutes looking rather stern."

Ah.

"Congratulations," Mycroft shot his brother a level look. "You know your son."

Sherlock smirked. "Now, I will go and attempt to fix the damage, and tomorrow you will attempt to engage brain. Understood?"

"Are you sure you should be lecturing me on thinking through my actions?"

There was a sudden stiff set to Sherlock's shoulders. "That is my concern with my son. You have your own to deal with."

* * *

Strangely aware that he was being watched, John opened his eyes and stared at his father.

"Hi," he greeted his dad in a very small voice.

Sherlock pulled a face and just dragged him out of the bed, pulling the duvet and half the pillows off in the process, until John was sat in his lap, curled up to his chest and head tucked under his father's chin. Long fingered hands stroked his hair and pushed him even further into Sherlock.

"Are you okay?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but suddenly busied himself with wrapping the duvet around John to keep him warm.

"Sherlock?"

A long sigh ruffled his hair.

"You were never meant to see that," Sherlock breathed. "Do you understand me? Never."

John snuggled in even closer and bit at his lip. "But…" he braced himself for any reaction. "It was my fault."

Sherlock's head shook against his and his grip tightened.

Then he pulled away.

Panicked, John clutched at his shirt to try and keep him still but Sherlock just cupped his face and raised it so they could look at each other.

And for the first time in ages, Sherlock looked at a loss of what he should say next. "How…" he shook his head. "How did I make you?" he muttered under his breath.

Not entirely sure if that was a good or bad question, John squinted at him and waited curiously.

"I…I get bored," Sherlock said slowly. "I was bored. My temper was…fractious to say the least. You were struggling to cope with it."

John curled up a little, remembering the look on Sherlock's face some days when he came back from school.

"I wanted to…get rid of the vitriol," Sherlock stroked John's cheek with his thumb. "That's what I meant. I was doing it because I could see how much I was hurting you."

"I'm sorry-"

Sherlock winced and pulled him close. "That isn't…" he let out a frustrated noise. "You have nothing to apologise for."

He must have. Doubtful, John said nothing.

"What could you possibly think you have to apologise for?" Sherlock breathed into his hair.

Whatever it was, that did it. John turned his head, buried his face in his dad's shoulder and pressed his lips together to stop the words and the tears from spilling out.

"John?"

"I made mum into a thief and now you're doing drugs and he was right and I'm sorry-" John couldn't hold back the sobs any longer.

"Why on earth-

"I told you to ignore everything Nigel Watson said to you."

Startled, John looked up over Sherlock's shoulder and started at Mycroft in his pyjamas and dressing gown. It was strange to see him in his nightwear; John had almost been certain that he had been glued into his suits.

"What Nigel…" Sherlock trailed off and glanced between them and then leaned awkwardly to peer at John's face. Helplessly, John stared at Mycroft.

A gentle hand stroked his hair and encouraged him to lean on Sherlock's shoulder again, burying his face to hide from the world.

"Nigel said more to him?" Sherlock asked, turning them a little.

"He implied that John was to blame for his mother being a thief, claimed that everything he touched was poison."

John curled his fingers into Sherlock's shirt. Tightly.

"And you didn't think I might need to know that?" Sherlock growled at Mycroft. "That it might be relevant?"

"I…" Mycroft sounded hesitant suddenly, which had to be wrong because he was never hesitant about anything. "I hadn't realised that you weren't told."

John ducked in closer to his father, wanting to hide away and never have to deal with it. Trying not to cry even more than he already had, John waited.

Scared.

"Not now," Mycroft murmured. "Look at him."

Confused, John desperately wanted to look at what was happening but he didn't dare look up or pull back.

Softly he heard the door shut and Sherlock shifted them both a little, stroking a hand down his back.

"Once upon a time there was a spoiled selfish boy-"

Stunned, John whipped his head back and out to stare in disbelief. Sherlock, telling him a bed time story?

Sherlock met his gaze and raised a challenging eyebrow. Not entirely comfortable with calling him out and scorning the idea, John lowered his head and settled back again, a little lower on Sherlock's chest this time so he could hear the thumping, reassuring beat of his heart.

"And this boy never had to work for anything. It was all so easy apart from the things that weren't. But then, one day, a girl came along and offered him a present.

"The boy had no idea how to react to it but deep, deep down he knew that he wanted this present. Knew that it would be the most amazing gift but before he could really understand it, the gift was taken away and hidden from him.

"And everyone blamed him for it, everyone was disappointed that the gift hadn't been given. The boy's behaviour hadn't helped matters because he had hurt his brother years and years ago and his parents weren't too sure how to forgive him. The present had been his chance to start anew and that had gone, so the boy decided to leave the family and delve into the world of drugs."

Wait? John frowned against his father's chest.

"He wanted to forget and feel something different, something certain. Feel something absolute. He floundered through life until he ended up in a prison cell.

"He went to prison for a few months after burning through a number of cautions, then to rehab, then he overdosed."

John snuggled in as close as he could, wanting to offer some comfort.

"Then he accidently solved a crime. He was attempting to annoy a Detective Sergeant and then the next thing he knew he was having his statement taken to explain what had happened. It was a better rush and that became more important than the drugs. Suddenly there was a place in the world for him, an important place.

"And, just as his life was better, just as he thought he'd found the thing that mattered, he found the gift again, the precious present. The thing that made life good and meaningful and full of interest. His son."

John desperately wanted to believe it. Quietly, he waited.

"And he wasn't very good at it, or that traditional. There are some things he is simply unable to offer his son. And some things he isn't very good at explaining. Such as the fact that his son is the best thing he has in his life, the thing that makes him laugh and smile, the best experiment and the greatest puzzle." Sherlock's arms tightened around him. "And for him, the worst thing is when he hurts his son or when his son believes that he doesn't love him."

John's eyes flew open.

"Promise?" he whispered.

"You are the furthest thing from poison," Sherlock murmured. "And your mother had other options, not many, I grant, but she chose this for you, not because of you. Do you really believe Nigel couldn't have provided for you and your mother ten times over had he chosen? He shunned her, he sent her out on the streets. Your existence was never to blame for your mother's choices in life."

John wasn't entirely sure about that. Looking down, he plucked at Sherlock's sleeve. "I stole," he confessed brokenly. "Mum…they needed me to wiggle through the window-"

"I know."

John's eyes shot open and he pulled back to stare at Sherlock in horror. "You know?" he asked in horror. "Did Mycroft tell you?"

Something lit up in Sherlock's eyes. "No," he said, sounding very unhappy. "I studied her crimes. It was the one she was the most guilty about and the one that seemed to make the least sense. When I asked, she told me."

"When?" John asked.

"A few months ago," Sherlock shrugged as if it didn't matter. "Did you think I would care?"

"It was a house like Grandma and Grandpa," John whispered. "Nice people-"

"They weren't," Sherlock said definitely. "Certainly not worth your concern."

"Grandma and Grandpa would be furious," John whispered.

"Yes. With your mother. You could probably commit mass genocide and they'd still think the world shone out of your backside."

John bit his lip. "Really?"

"Really. Mycroft gets close to it every other day and they still think him perfect," Sherlock agreed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You are wanted, John. Never believe anything but that. I had flaws years before you were born, you have no bearing upon that."

"But…"John turned it over in his head. "You…you still…"

"Took cocaine?"

John nodded.

Sherlock let out a very long sigh. "I…I sincerely wish I had a good answer for you. All I can offer is that it was not because of you or because I am unhappy with you in my life."

That was a bit better. But, worried, John hesitated before he asked the next question, the one he had desperately wanted to ask since the conversation had first began.

"So what do I do next time?"

There was a long silence as Sherlock carded a hand through John's hair. "If," he said slowly, "If there is a next time, you do as Mycroft requested. You go out and you go to him or your grandparents."

"But-"

"No." Sherlock sounded absolute in it. "You are not the parent, John. I am."

Unconvinced, because that sounded like he was being babied, John shrugged. "Can we go home?"

"In a few days. You are staying here with Mycroft who will attempt to convince himself that he is not about to turn into our grandfather." Sherlock sounded bored by the idea. "For such an intelligent man he is an utter fool sometimes."

"That was a compliment," John warned.

"He'd never believe you," Sherlock didn't seem bothered. "And it was backhanded at best."

John giggled into his chest. "Are you staying here?" he asked quietly.

"No. I will be back in a few days."

"Oh." It was stupid, he was being such a baby about it all. "Where are you going?"

"Home. I'll be back to get you as soon as I can."

"Right," John nodded. "Sorry."

"You have an abominable habit of apologising for things you don't need to be sorry for," Sherlock huffed as he stood and lifted John clean off the floor with a grunt. "You're getting heavy," he complained.

"Old," John corrected as he was placed on the bed and the covers smoothed around him.

"Mm," Sherlock didn't sound too happy with the idea. Why though, John had no clue. The bigger he got, the more he could help Sherlock with cases.

"So you're not mad?" John asked, yawning as Sherlock climbed over him.

"No," came the simple reply. "Are you mad at me?"

"No." John frowned as his dad curled up around him outside of the covers and stroked his hair.

"Scared?"

John hesitated and then slowly nodded. "A little bit," he said. "You?"

Sherlock almost laughed behind him. "I was. I thought…I thought I would lose you. Of course, then I remembered Mycroft is a colossal moron, but for an hour…"

John giggled. "He's all right. He's not you though."

He could feel the grin Sherlock wore. "No," Sherlock agreed.

And, just because it was night and he was sleepy and Sherlock had told him the story, John thought he might be able to get away with being a bit sappy, as long as no-one else found out. "I'm glad you're my dad," he whispered.

Sherlock breathed in strangely and pressed a kiss to his hair again.

John fell asleep before his dad moved away.

* * *

Next up: Like father, like son: John is staying with his grandparents while Sherlock works a case and the pair are rather surprised at the amount of similarites they can see.

.


	8. Like Father, Like Son

Like Father, Like Son

* * *

The boys all seemed a little tight lipped about something when they came back from holiday. Oddly though, they all seemed to be a bit more relaxed with each other so whatever it was had been a good thing, Bella supposed.

Or at least she hoped.

Sherlock seemed to have recovered from his injury and was back at his cases. And, as much as John was eager to help, they did have to be realistic. Sherlock was currently hunting down a serial rapist and had seemed oddly determined to have John no-where near the case.

"He knows enough of the world without adding this to it," Sherlock had said, looking strangely awkward as he had handed John over to them for the next few days.

John, on the other hand, seemed to feel that he had been done a huge disservice and spent a whole day sulking about it.

It was the first hint she had seen of her son's legendary foul mood in the usually sunny tempered boy.

Quickly, it was becoming apparent that John, while he had more patience than Sherlock could ever hope to display, also had his abhorrence of being bored.

"We could go out," she offered. "See some of the sights."

"Pay for them?" John asked doubtfully. "Some of them really aren't worth paying for. Buckingham Palace was really dull. Their security guards are well annoying," he added with a sullen glare.

It was probably best she left that tale alone. "A show?"

John pulled a face. "Like?"

"A musical?"

She was almost sure she heard the word 'gay' muttered under John's breath.

"Shopping?"

John slumped.

"Your grandfather could take you fishing," she offered suddenly.

The look she received was just a shade shy of his earlier distaste. "Like…with a rod?" he asked, pulling another unimpressed face.

"Or golf?"

John turned in interest suddenly and nodded. "Sure," he said, sounding oddly chirpy about it. "Why not?"

* * *

Lucian stared at his wife, trying not to show his disbelief as she chattered away to him, pleased by John's sudden interest in the game. Humouring her, he nodded along and suggested perhaps he take John to the club before they went and spent money on an entire lifetime of golfing equipment.

Out the door and half way up the road, he stopped and folded his arms, looking down at his grandson.

John stared back at him.

"Your father has strict rules about pickpocketing," Lucian said, deciding there was little point in beating around the bush.

John flinched and looked hurt. "I wasn't gonna," he argued, seeming genuinely annoyed by the accusation.

"And I have rules about conning people."

At that, John faltered and sighed. "I was just gonna do it for pennies," he muttered, scrapping his foot on the floor. "I'm bored," he added.

God, he could be so much like Sherlock sometimes.

Strangely touching though it was, Lucian frowned down at the boy. "Do you want to learn how to play golf?"

John shook his head. "Sherlock would have a field day," he muttered.

Sherlock would be furious with Lucian for allowing his son to learn such a boring game, Lucian thought with a sigh.

"Let's go to the zoo," Lucian muttered, clapping his grandson around the shoulders. "We'll tell your grandmother you had a change of heart."

* * *

Bella was entertaining the ladies for the fund raising committee out in the garden. She loved the little area out the back, hidden from the summer sun in the nock in the rockery where she had a patio and chairs.

"You must be so excited for the wedding," she said to Tabitha, a little jealous. Neither of her sons showed any sign of getting married. And it was different with girls than it was for boys. There were dresses, hair styles, make-up decisions and colour schemes.

"We can't wait," Tabitha agreed. "Elaine wants to go dress shopping next week. I'll probably cry my eyes out."

"You must take a picture," Helena said firmly. "Poor Bella and I only had boys, we're both so jealous, aren't we darling?" she said to Bella.

"Terribly jealous," Bella managed to laugh it off seeing her friend so happy. "Do let Elaine know that she has surrogate dress shoppers waiting in the wings."

The last of their group, Patricia (who privately Bella thought could be a little…inelegant in her remarks) sniffed dismissively. "You want to be careful about the shops you go into. Exclusivity dear, that what makes a dress."

"I'm sure she'll look beautiful in whatever she-" Bella broke off from soothing over the slightly stupid comment as she spotted a figure lurking by the steps down to where they were sitting. "John?" she called, leaning to catch a glimpse. "I thought you were at your friend's house?"

Her grandson shuffled forward, throwing a slightly panicked look at her friends. "I…uh…came back," he said awkwardly. "I was just checking you were in. The front door's not locked," he added in a scolding tone.

"Who's this young man then?" Helena asked leaning forward.

How strange that she didn't know, but then Helena had been away at their winter home all break. Still, it seemed strange that the gossip hadn't reached her ears yet.

Or maybe that was old news now?

"This?" Bella turned John, feeling suddenly delighted. "This is Sherlock's little boy. John."

John visibly bristled at being described as a 'little boy'. But it served to rid him of some of his nerves.

"Sherlock's son?" Helena blinked in disbelief. "But-" she broke off, obviously a little uncomfortable with discussing it in front of John. "My word, you look like your mother," she said, with a quick look at Bella.

Bella nodded in confirmation.

Sod Nigel Watson and his ridiculous attitude towards her grandson.

"He does," she agreed. "Anna always had the loveliest eyes.

This time there was a suspicious look thrown at her, as if John wasn't entirely sure whether he should be happy with that description or not.

"This is Helena, Tabitha, and Patricia," Bella introduced, nodding at each of them in turn.

"Hi," John said with a small smile.

"Oh, you wouldn't know he's Sherlock's," Tabitha said with a pleased smile. "Your father was such a wild boy, he didn't have time for manners. Do you remember when he interrupted our meeting to ask to use the teapot to keep frogspawn in," she asked good-naturedly. "I thought Poppy Fieldgate was about to have a coronary," she laughed. "And it would have served her right too, she was a funny old dear."

Patricia, who hadn't been present at said meeting, looked horrified at the idea.

"Oh yes," Helena laughed. "I can see it now. 'Mother, I need the teapot. Do be sure to rid it entirely of the tea, I don't want earl grey contaminating my data'. Oh, he could only have been nine."

John grinned, "Seriously?" he asked, looking up at Bella. "Sherlock did that?"

Bella nodded. "Oh yes. Always a story with him around. He would make quite the ice-breaker at a dull meeting."

John giggled, "Anything to not be bored," he said with a wink.

"And how old are you?" Tabitha asked, knowing full well how old John was. "Twelve?"

"Eleven," but John's chest puffed up a little. "And a half," he added, ignoring a few months apparently.

"I thought you said Sherlock was twenty eight?" Patricia suddenly asked.

"He is," Bella agreed. "John sweetheart, did you want some lemonade-"

"Oh," Patricia suddenly cut across the conversation. "Oh, I see."

John eyed her warily and then shot Bella an apologetic glance that almost broke her heart. "No," he said with an odd smile. "Just wanted to check you were okay," he said and darted off before she could stop him.

"Lovely boy," Tabitha smiled. "I can see Sherlock in him."

"You can?" Bella was genuinely surprised.

"Oh yes, Sherlock would have been less obvious about it but he always used to wander over to check on you. The excuses that boy came up with," Tabitha shook her head. "I think my favourite one was when he claimed the fountain had broken because of a dead squirrel."

"That wasn't an excuse," Bella sighed. "There was a dead squirrel."

"Oh yes, Sherlock had put it there," Tabitha sighed with a fond smile. "He and Mycroft engineered the whole thing to get you out of that hideous delegation with Caroline Hobbs. You remember her?"

Of course she did, the difficult woman, but…she'd never known that Sherlock and Mycroft had…

Touched, she sat down, a little dazed by the idea.

"I wasn't aware your son had been so…young," Patricia said into the silence.

"I have no idea how, the gossip usually circulates far better than that," Bella said calmly as she sipped her drink. "Problem?" she asked lightly.

"No," Patricia said, seemingly taken aback. "No problem."

"Oh it's a shame Mycroft and Sherlock don't show any interest in marriage," Helena sighed. "Wouldn't John make a lovely page boy?"

Bella laughed as she imagined the horror on John's face if ever faced with such an idea.

* * *

"Do you know Grandma doesn't lock the door when she's on her own?" John announced one morning as they sat at the breakfast table.

Sherlock, who had joined them for breakfast, or rather to watch and tap on his phone, rolled his eyes. "She's fine," he muttered at his phone.

"Don't act as if I'm being stupid. I've never drowned a squirrel to get her away from some of those women," John argued.

Lucian blinked at the article he was reading and lowered his paper to look enquiringly at his youngest son.

"It was already dead," Sherlock almost squirmed. "And I wanted to see the effect being submerged would have on the carcass. It was Mycroft who suggested we kill two birds with one stone."

John sniggered, clearly unconvinced.

"We're in a safe neighbourhood," Lucian said, wanting to sooth John's worries.

But his grandson snorted. "You're in an area that is a prime mark," he corrected, shaking his head as if Lucian were the child.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. "However no-one has or will touch this house. Not with your Uncle pointing the CCTV and various agents at it."

What?

Lucian dropped the paper to the table. "I'm sorry, what does Mycroft do-"

"I saw Kirsty the other day," John said in an oddly challenging way. "You sure it's just Mycroft with his network looking after this place?"

Sherlock glared at John. "Believe whatever you choose to believe," he said snottily.

"I…" Lucian glanced between the two. "We do not need either one of you looking out for the house-"

He received two pairs of doubtful looks, before John started pestering Sherlock with questions about the results of the long dead squirrel experiment.

Lucian let it go. There were worse things, he supposed, than accepting your sons were watching out for you.

Especially when your bloody wife couldn't remember to latch the door nine times out of ten.


	9. Secondary School

Author's Note:

Okay so in the UK we have private schools/public schools which are the same thing. Public tends to be fading from use because of americanism's coming in etc.

Comprehensive and state schools are open and free for all. (We also have academies and independent school but best not to go into that!) And we have Ofsted inspectors (boo, hiss) who inspect the school's every two to four years (I.e. after three and a half years everyone gets twitchy) and grade the school as outstanding, good, satisfactory and special measures (which means you'd better improve in two years or the school is ended and usually means a new head teacher ill be appointed). When Bella says outstanding, she is referring to the Ofsted inspection.

* * *

Secondary School

John starts secondary school at a rather familar place...

* * *

A rather miserable looking John stared at him as Sherlock entered the living room. Sherlock blinked at the boy, sullenly standing in the very centre of the room in smart trousers, a navy blazer and a striped tie.

"Why are you wearing a tie?" Sherlock asked, stopping at the sight.

"Oh, Sherlock," his mother said, suddenly popping up from nowhere. "Doesn't he look smart?" she asked, clearly delighted with the effect.

John threw Sherlock a pleading glance.

Confused, Sherlock studied his son, the outfit, the-

Ah, the school badge. This was the uniform then.

Wait…that badge looked vaguely familiar…

"St Pauls?" he demanded, staring at his mother, suddenly slightly…uncomfortable. "St Pauls?"

"You and Mycroft turned out well enough," she said, putting a pin in her mouth as she worked on turning John's trousers up a little.

"You went there?" John asked, suddenly interested. "I thought you went to a posh school?"

"It's an outstanding school," his mother scolded as she started to pin the trousers. "Just because it isn't private-"

"Please," Sherlock muttered, collapsing onto the chair as he glared at the pair. "It's as exclusive. It's a school masquerading as something it isn't."

John's shoulders fell minutely as he pulled a face.

"Then you should have dealt with the issue of his school yourself," his mother said primly.

No, he didn't deal with meetings and fake smiles and small talk.

Not even for John.

"They'll hate me," John muttered. "They'll remember you and have trauma flashbacks."

Possibly. "It has been years since I went there," Sherlock started to protest.

"Mm," John smirked. "Let's see, how old am I and add nine months…twelve years?" he said with a nod. "I hate having young parents," he added with a sulky glare.

Probably best not to tell him that he'd attended up until after John had been born to take his a-levels and had ended up having his father in the school every other month 'persuading' the school not to kick him out.

"Did Mum go there?" John suddenly asked.

Sherlock danced his gaze away. "For a time," he said evasively.

"She was kicked out?" John asked, awed.

"Yes." How she had managed it when he had failed was beyond belief. Either the school had simply preferred his parents to hers or they'd been far more willing to put up with him when he was bumping up their average marks.

It had been deeply unfair either way.

Looking horrified, John looked at him pleadingly. "You can't make me go there," he pleaded. "They'll think everything is my fault."

"Don't be silly," his mother scolded, switching to the other leg. "They liked Mycroft."

That was all she could say to help the situation? Sherlock glared at her and then frowned at what she was doing. "That's uneven," he scolded, pointing at the material she was turning up.

"Well," she sat back on her heels. "I've never had to do this before; you and your brother never were too small for you clothes."

John's mouth firmed and he folded his arms, clearly cross.

"Don't blame us," Sherlock said, shaking his head at his mother's lack of tact. "It's your mother that's short."

John huffed.

* * *

"This?" John yelped at him later that evening. "This is where I'm going?" he asked, trying to shove the laptop screen in Sherlock's face.

"Congratulations, you have discovered Google," Sherlock batted the screen away. "I'm thinking, John."

"But…It's massive," John whined. "I'll get lost."

"From the boy that can navigate his way through the entirety of London?" Sherlock asked glaring at him. "I doubt it."

"They'll be posh people there," John tried to change tact.

"I doubt you'll be the only 'non-posh' person," Sherlock muttered. "And posh is a vague word, avoid it."

"Can't we just tell Grandma that I'm going to that school when really I'll be going to the one across the road," John tried to wheedle.

"No."

"What about if I get kicked out?"

No. That would not be happening. He would not end up the only person that failed to be expelled from that school. "I will not be pleased," he said fiercely. "At all."

John glared at him, furiously. "I'll do it," he threatened.

He wouldn't dare.

* * *

"How was school?" he asked as John came thudding up the stairs.

His son, stupid as he could be, tried to school his expression into one of displeasure. However, the smile kept breaking through until the boy gave up completely. "It's brilliant," he confessed. "They have eyeballs in the science labs, pickled."

They hadn't had that when he'd been there. That was highly unfair.

* * *

"No."

"Sherlock, he's your son-" his mother started to protest.

He was well aware of that. He was also well aware that it did not automatically mean he had to go to every single school function.

He was busy, his work was important and he needed to keep his brain flexible and sharp in order to work.

Therefore, busy thinking was an acceptable reason not to go to this mentor meeting, or whatever it was.

* * *

"You are going," Mycroft declared, folding his arms as he stood at the edge of the police lines.

"Sherlock? Who is-" Lestrade began to say.

"Mycroft." Sherlock glared tersely at his brother.

"Oh, we've talked over the phone," Lestrade said holding out his hand.

"No," Sherlock said flatly, knocking the hand down before Mycroft could reach for it. "He is going and he is not coming back. I am not going and that is-"

"I will tell our parents about your relapse."

Lestrade's expression went from peeved to pissed off in less than a second. "You got high?" he demanded of Sherlock.

And that was only a fraction of what he could expect should Mycroft inform their parents of Sherlock's summer exploits.

"You are not to use this again," Sherlock warned, pointing a finger at his brother. "I mean it, Mycroft."

Mycroft, annoyingly, didn't respond.

* * *

John looked horrified. "Not all of you," he said, suddenly pale. "Not all at once."

"I concur," Sherlock said standing. "I'll go-"

His father pulled him back down to the chair without even looking at him. "Sit."

Sherlock folded his arms and glared at his son. "Don't even think about complaining to me about this," he said waspishly. "I am as unhappy about it as you are."

"You'd think we were subjecting the pair of you to torture," his mother muttered.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, then glared at Mycroft who was studying his phone. "Tell me there's been an international crisis," he pleaded.

"No, just Canada."

"That's hardly going to be of any use getting me out of here," Sherlock stared at the door. "Pick a more war-prone country."

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe," a teacher said, opening the door finally.

Sherlock had no idea who they were. Catching his parents' look he shrugged. "Deleted them," he decided.

John almost slid to the floor in mortification.

"I'm sorry?"

Casting a look at the horrified expression on John's face, Sherlock softened ever so slightly. "Irrelevant," he dismissed, standing. There was still an expectant look on his face…

Wedding ring; been married for almost thirty five years. Shoes and brief glimpse of the room behind, combined with his memory of Sherlock meant he'd probably been teaching during Sherlock's entire forced time at the school. Two… three children as evidenced by his desk, he had a difficult relationship with at least one and minimal contact. All adults now. Science teacher; chemistry from the abrasions on the cuffs of his sleeves-

"Mr Renolds," Sherlock held out a hand. "Still teaching then?"

Mr Renolds looked slightly taken aback. "I didn't think you'd remember me," he said with some surprise.

He hadn't. The man had been unimaginative and a slave to the text book.

"And Mycroft," Mr Renolds added holding out his hand. "I believe I had the brief pleasure of your company before you left for Cambridge."

Mycroft nodded politely and shook the hand too. "These are our parents, Bella and Lucian," he said, introducing them all like the good son he was.

"Ah, I thought…we are only meant to be seeing John's immediate family-"

"It's an unusual situation," Mycroft cut in.

"Which is in the file," Sherlock added, looking at the ceiling.

"Oh, you know how it is. Lots of new students. And his surname puts him at the back of the pile."

Yes, that fit with Sherlock's memory of the man. "You're John's…"

"Form tutor," Mr Renolds helped him out. "Lovely lad, aren't you John."

John didn't look inclined to agree and stood awkwardly, shooting death glares at Sherlock.

"Well, if you're all eager to hear, then come on in," Mr Renolds said, ushering their small party into the classroom.

"I'm amazed he wasn't swept out years ago," Sherlock muttered to John as they followed the rest in. "Boring?"

John shrugged. "We do piss all in form," he said, agreeing. "But that's way more fun than doing what we're meant to do."

Hmm.

Waste of time, clearly. "So you could miss the first twenty minutes of school?" Sherlock asked thoughtfully.

John glared at him. "I'm not getting up earlier to do experiments," he said warningly.

Why not?

They took their seats at the table and Mr Renolds smiled. "Well I've had no complaints about John from anyone so far."

How wonderfully vague.

"And he's certainly got the Holmes brain," Mr Renolds joked.

John looked rather pained by that as he shot a doubtful look at Sherlock.

"And I see here that he's been recommended for the top set of science," Mr Renolds said, studying the computer. "Definitely your son, Sherlock."

Why did everyone feel the need to point this out as if it was some great leap of intelligence?

"And of course, good news for me. I like the scientists," Mr Renolds added with a cheesy wink.

Oh god, how much longer of this did they have?

"Well he scored well on his science in his SATS," his mother said with a slightly forced smile. "It was his English work that we had some concerns about. You're not that interested in reading, are you sweetheart," she said, looking over at John. "You must have come across this before. Anything you can recommend or is there a way of contacting his English Teacher?"

Mr Renolds blinked. "Uh…well…I'm a science Teacher you see-"

Next to Sherlock, his father shifted.

Irritated.

Smirking, Sherlock sat back.

"What?" John mouthed at him.

Sherlock shook his head.

It was one of the few admirable traits about his father. Waiting smugly for the dressing down, Sherlock was almost beside himself with glee at getting to see it again.

His father could and had reduced grown men to tears before.

Nothing.

Confused, he glanced at him. His father was drumming his fingers on the table and his mouth was almost a neat white line.

What?

Baffled, Sherlock waited the entire meeting for his father to start his lecture and yet they managed until the end of the useless allotted time without anyone saying a word.

Even Mycroft had been silent.

* * *

"What was that?" Sherlock demanded as they walked down the hallway.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," his father snapped back. "That man is useless."

"I agree. Why didn't you say anything?" Sherlock asked as they took great strides, leaving the others behind.

His father stopped suddenly. "He's your son. You hate me taking over."

"Not that. It's about your only use," Sherlock folded his arms. "I was waiting for you to do it."

His father's mouth dropped. "You…wanted me to do it?"

"It's a fading art. So few manage now."

His father rolled his eyes and turned with a sigh back to the classroom.

Excellent.

"Wait," John looked up at him as Sherlock slung his arm about the boy's shoulders, almost rocking back and forth with delight. "He's better than you at it?"

"Where do you think we get it from?" Mycroft asked, looking almost as pleased. "We are but mere students in comparison."

"Seriously?" John asked owlishly as he glanced between them and then up the hall and at the door. "Grandpa?"

"You should have seen the way Sherlock's music teacher ran out of the house," Mycroft said, lost in the memory. "She'd refused to let him compose, despite saying that was fine in the interview. My god, the tears," he added.

"Tried to sue for emotional distress," Sherlock added. "The lawyer left in tears too."

John grinned, looking enchanted by the idea, then suddenly paled. "Shit, that's my teacher," he gasped. "I don't want to do work in form," he complained, pulling away and stepping forward, just as Sherlock's father opened the door again.

"What did you do?" John asked in horror.

"Do? I talked to him. We have another of these next week," Sherlock's father said pleasantly. "He's promised it will be more useful."

John looked as if he were about to sink to the floor in sheer horror.

Ah.

Should have done it himself.

* * *

Next Chapters:

Nightmare

Tricked

Rugby


	10. Nightmare

**Nightmare**

Okay, so ordinarily I would never do this (post twice in the same evening) but...

1. I wrote loads today (I'm talking 6 chapters for fanfic and 3 for original and had a breakthrough on One Step (nothing written yet but ideas have occured!)

2. I have employment. I know, astonishing!

3. My Nan just poked her head around the door and told me to "Smash it out the park, baby", did a dance, then closed the door and totled off. This from a woman who bakes cakes for everyone, knits baby blankets and is in her seventies and spent a great deal of her life trying to appease my snobish great grandparents who disapproved of her because she was from North London, Welsh and 'common'. I love her!

So screw it, I'm happy and I'm posting!

Thank you to NicolettelliW for betaing this chapter.

* * *

It had been a long case, bordering on nine days, which really was quite shocking to Sherlock; he'd been sure he would have had it all worked out in six.

It had been a delicious surprise, a twist.

There were so few thieves that allowed for a twist.

As was quickly now becoming habit, Sherlock fired off a text to his parents when the thief was finally arrested, instructing them that they could drop John off at Baker Street and into Mrs Hudson's tender care. Tomorrow was Saturday, so he'd ensured that the paper work (God only knew why he had to do it, surely his talents had better use than signing things) was all completed. He'd barely seen John and the idea of a weekend together sounded…necessary.

Perhaps they could have a look at the mauled arm Molly had been keeping on ice for them.

At ten past one in the morning, he collapsed into bed to sleep properly for the first time in days.

An hour later he woke again.

It was hard to tell exactly what it was that had woken him up. That was until he heard the floorboards squeak, followed by a relieved sigh

John.

"Why are you awake?" he asked without bothering to open his eyes.

"I…" his son sounded as if he'd been awake for a while. "Nothing."

That didn't follow. Logical assumption would be that John had been waiting for a different question and had answered that rather than the one that left Sherlock's lips.

One of two then: 'What are you doing?' and 'What's wrong?'

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to his son who was standing in the doorway, his back to the light.

"John?"

"It's nothing," his son protested again.

Ah, the latter question then.

Sherlock reached out and switched his light on.

His son had flushed cheeks from embarrassment but also from thrashing – his pyjamas were mussed and the sleeve slightly damp. And he smelt of sweat.

A nightmare?

Did eleven year olds have nightmares?

"Stupid," John muttered, looking mortified as he lurked at the boundary of the door.

"What was the nightmare about?"

For a moment, John appeared torn; his legs flexing as if he wanted to dash away upstairs. But, as if accepting that Sherlock knew the humiliating aspect of it, John slumped in resignation.

And hunched his arm ever so slightly.

Sherlock sat up properly, suddenly very aware. "Your arm…something happened?"

John shook his head. "No, we had a…" he pulled an unimpressed face. "We had PSHE today."

Was he meant to know what that was?

"Personal, Social, Health Education," John added helpfully. "They try and tell you not to drink or have sex or how to not piss off your neighbour."

Ah. How dull. Why bother?

"And this disturbed you?" Sherlock asked a little baffled.

They were not that much alike, surely?

"Alison Roberts's dad was taken away because he gave her a few wallops after he'd had a pint," John scuffed his bare foot at the carpet. "We had a woman come in about abuse."

Ah.

"I assumed it stirred some…memories?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

John shrugged, not looking at him. "It was a shite video," he said quietly. "Complete bollocks. It never happens like that."

It didn't happen to you like that, Sherlock wanted to correct.

It should never have happened at all. Any of it.

"Come here," he said softly, reaching out a hand to John. Slowly, and with an odd, haunted look in his eyes, John stepped closer.

Once his son was close enough, Sherlock pulled him onto the bed gently and onto his lap, then enfolded the bed covers around his son so that he had a bundle of wrapped up eleven year old snug in his lap.

"Stupid," John muttered again into his lap.

"Mm," Sherlock said, resting his chin on the boy's head. "What did you dream about?"

A shrug.

Okay. Work backwards then. "Why was the video so useless?"

Silence.

"He looked sad, the boy I mean," John said suddenly, as the quiet lay between them. "And the man looked angry and…" John looked down. "They cut away from it."

Sherlock wrapped an arm tighter around his son, trying to think of something to say, something that would rub the memory away and ensure it never bothered his son again.

"He laughed," John said suddenly, sounding almost puzzled.

"On the screen?"

John nodded slowly.

There. That had been it. The similarity that had followed John into his sleep.

He'd laughed. The man who had broken his son's arm had laughed about it.

They'd never really talked about it when Sherlock had first taken John in. Back then Sherlock hadn't quite done it properly and John seemed to have no urge to talk about it all.

Mistake number sixty three now.

"You said he didn't mean to do it, that he caught your arm wrong on the wall."

John nodded. "He still laughed though," he muttered, snuggling even closer to Sherlock. "It hurt," he added so quietly that Sherlock strained to hear him. "He didn't even mean to do it and it hurt."

For some reason the confusion in his son's voice was harder to deal with; as if John could have understood a deliberate injury. Stroking at John's hair, Sherlock stared at the wall in front of him.

"What was your dream about?" he asked again.

"Just…just what happened," John shrugged. "He was behind me and I couldn't see him and he shoved me at the wall and told me…" he trailed off again. "And then…I tried to get away. I can sometimes," John added, as if that would help matters. "But…he laughed because I couldn't and because…"

He turned his face into Sherlock again and dampness bled through Sherlock's t-shirt.

If he'd taken him in sooner, if he'd grabbed at the boy the moment he'd seen him when Anna had been arrested, John wouldn't have these nightmares. Wouldn't know what it was like to be at someone's mercy.

He slid them down and turned, spooning around his son to keep him from the world, not caring that John was bundled up in all the bed sheets leaving none spare for Sherlock.

"He can't hurt you," Sherlock whispered fiercely. "No-one can hurt you."

"I don't want to dream about him," John said suddenly, sounding like Sherlock.

"Then you won't," Sherlock said simply, pressing a kiss to the boy's hair. "I promise."

John turned to look at him, as if studying how likely it was that Sherlock was telling the truth. Huge, trusting eyes scanned him, even as they fluttered sleepily.

"Sorry I woke you up," John said, yawning.

"I wake you up often enough. We're allowed to wake each other up at stupid hours of the night," Sherlock dismissed.

A half smile crossed John's face. "Yeah?"

Sherlock nodded.

John wriggled, rearranging himself until his head was on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's arm was around the boy's thin shoulders.

"Were you ever hit?" John asked suddenly.

Surprised by the sudden question, Sherlock blinked at him. "Have you met me?" he asked blankly.

John flashed a grin, but it vanished in less than a heartbeat. "Like… like Mycroft?"

Ah.

"No," Sherlock said softly. "Not like Mycroft. I was hit. Once."

"Did you dream about it?"

No. Not about that. Sherlock shook his head and John slumped a little. "This is the first nightmare you've had here?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded, peering up at him.

"You are remarkably well adjusted, John," Sherlock sighed. "Most children would be in floods of tears by now."

"I cried a bit," John squirmed. "Not much though."

He didn't know whether to laugh or wince at the words. "That's acceptable," Sherlock said eventually.

"And they were pretty manly tears," John added. "I didn't sob or sniffle at all."

Sherlock nodded. "Go to sleep," he said, adjusting John on his chest a little. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't do any manly snoring."

John giggled a little. "I don't snore," he protested.

"Then Mrs Hudson is excessively loud."

After the awkward, fearful looks earlier, John sniggering was a welcome sound and Sherlock relaxed a little.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Can I really wake you up whenever I want?"

"As long as you understand it means I can do the same."

John nodded. "You wake me up for cool things. I just…I cried on you," he said, pulling a face at the idea.

"Give it a few years. I'm sure you'll have just as many cool things to wake me up for. And by that time I might be sobbing over the fact that Anderson is still being paid for being useless."

He was aware John was studying him hard, but kept his eyes closed. "Deal," John decided, sounding pleased.

"Excellent."

* * *

_I need you to look again for John's attacker. SH_

_We looked Sherlock. We exhausted everything. There's nothing to go on. MH_

_He laughed. When he broke John's arm, he laughed. SH_

_I'll look again. MH_


	11. Tricked

Tricked

It was not without some small amount of trepidation that Sherlock made his way out into the kitchen on the morning of his twenty ninth birthday.

Practically thirty, how depressing; he was about to be in the same age category as Mycroft again.

Keeping a wary eye out for a certain eleven year old that had complained endlessly last year that he'd not been told about Sherlock's birthday, Sherlock went straight for the kettle.

Whatever John had planned would require coffee. Or poison, but it seemed wiser to start with coffee.

A series of thuds announced his son's imminent arrival into the room and Sherlock braced himself.

"Have you seen my trainers?" John panted as he raced in. "I swear I left them in my room."

"Those things with holes in them at the toe?"

Sherlock had discovered that his parents had been supremely gifted to have two children uninterested in team sports. John went through shoes at a monthly rate with all the kicking he did.

His son rolled his eyes. "Yes," he groused, sounding already bored of the conversation. "Why, what have you done?"

Measured the effect of acid on shoes that smelt like they had been dragged through the Thames on a hot day.

"Why would I want your shoes?" Sherlock asked with some disgust.

John groaned. "You're such a git," he complained before fleeing the room.

Maybe there was a small chance that if the idiot didn't discover the new trainers Sherlock's mother had bought yesterday, John might just leave in a huff and forget whatever birthday thing he had planned-

"Wow," came a shout from upstairs. "Thanks."

Or not.

* * *

After watching his son devour what had to be half a loaf of bread in the form of toast, Sherlock was starting to feel a little…confused?

No, not confused, and certainly not hurt by the fact that John hadn't so much as mentioned his birthday.

"Why do you require trainers?" Sherlock asked as he studied his son.

"It's PE today," John grinned. "Mr Potter reckons that I might get a place on one of the teams this term," he added with excitement.

How his son found such joy in team games was utterly beyond Sherlock. "You should avoid playing with Max then. God knows the boy has the coordination of a corpse."

"He tries," John said, glaring at him. "Besides, he's hilarious when we play. Other teams are laughing so much that we usually win. We worked it out," he added with a cheeky grin. "He's the distraction, he loves it."

Only John.

* * *

"Oh," John blinked on his way to the stairs. "Here," he aimed a coloured card at Sherlock and threw it like it was a Frisbee. "Happy Birthday," he added with a grin as he vanished through the door and crashed his way down the stairs.

That? That was it?

Put out beyond belief, Sherlock opened the generic card with a boat on it and turned it over, raising an eyebrow at the sales sticker for 59p.

Sulking, he threw the card across the room and curled up on the sofa.

This was it; he was getting old and John knew it and wouldn't want to spend time with him anymore.

Cruel child.

* * *

"Should I bother to wish you a Happy Birthday?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock threw himself into the seat opposite his brother.

"How do you cope?" Sherlock asked, placing his feet on the desk.

Mycroft heaved a sigh. "I am not in the mood for you to start picking a fight-"

"No," Sherlock batted Mycroft's stupid thought away. "I meant with being old and boring. How do you cope?"

Mycroft actually paused in what he was doing and his gaze dropped to Sherlock's shoes. "You do not seriously believe you are becoming…mature?" he asked, sounding utterly doubtful.

"I have a son, a job, a flat. Sunday dinner," he sneered. "I am predictable and dull," he declared, folding his arms petulantly.

The expression on Mycroft's face was of one who had far too much he wanted to say and couldn't decide which one to pick. "Did John imply you were old?" he asked, sitting back. "Because, to an eleven year old, you are."

"He bought me a card with a boat on it," Sherlock said, still disgusted. "Do I look like I'm about to stumble into my grave?"

"Depends what killer you are chasing down this week," Mycroft picked up his pen, apparently bored with the conversation.

Sherlock ducked forward, yanked it out of his brother's hand and threw it across the room. There was a long pause as Mycroft drew in a deep breath and glared at him.

"You are four," Mycroft said in a nonchalant tone. "You are not old, you are utterly childish. Now go away."

That was slightly better, Sherlock thought.

* * *

"No," his father said, crossing his arms at the door.

"But-"

"Mycroft has already warned us," was the sharp reply. "You are being more immature than usual."

Sherlock glared at him and then went up on his toes to peer past. "I haven't had a single present," he called to his mother.

"She's out," his father said, looking amused.

Damn it. Sherlock folded his arms. "I can stay on the steps all day," he announced.

"Okay," his father folded his arms too. "What shall we talk about?"

Talk?

God no, nothing was worth that.

With a thunderous expression, Sherlock stormed off.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" he demanded as he turned.

A neatly wrapped present came sailing through the air and instinct had him catch it automatically.

"See, now we've had a father son game of catch on your birthday," his father quipped, still looking amused.

For a second, just a second, his father sounded so much like John, that Sherlock almost smiled in response. Whatever expression he did make, made his father's lips tug up just a little.

John was a good influence on him.

* * *

A new phone?

A good phone!

Delighted, despite himself, Sherlock examined it with glee at all the things he could do with it. It would speed his deductions up so much to just search the internet quickly on the spot, he could check the weather, the police reports.

Amazingly, they were already in the history.

And there were contacts…and a message.

_Tricked you, Dad. Happy birthday (Ps. Pain in the arse doing grammar on my phone. Can I have a new one too?)_

Sitting back on his heels, Sherlock smiled.

* * *

"You tricked me," he said, shaking his head at John who grinned at him.

"Did I?" John sounded utterly delighted. "You fell for it?"

He was too excited to be annoyed at it. His son had played him beautifully. Reaching out, he pulled the boy close and wrapped his arm around John as they walked down the street and away from the school. "You did well," he admitted. "The card was a particularly brilliant touch."

Rolling his eyes, John bit his lip. "So you read the text?"

"Yes."

Far better than a card.

"And the contacts?"

Sherlock nodded, "I assume you haven't told your grandparents that there are at least thirty criminals now in my phone book."

"Not criminals," John glared at him, dancing away a little as he walked backwards through the crowds. "Experts in their field."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze.

Looking as if he were fuelled by sheer happiness, John dug a hand in his pocket and handed an envelope to Sherlock. "Be careful; some of them are on napkins," he added.

"What are they?" Sherlock asked, peering in.

_IOU a favour. Barry Dresden._

_IOU a forgery. Sims._

And so on.

"You…you bought me favours?" Sherlock muttered, closing up the envelope.

John nodded. "Do you like it?" he asked, sounding a bit nervous. "Grandma and Grandpa wanted to get you something that you would like, so I suggested the phone and then…" he pulled a face. "Then they let me program it so it would be ready to go and there was no way I could compete with that so I just…added on to it," he narrowly avoided being run down by a business man. "So…I know I didn't buy anything but-"

Sherlock pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his hair. "You did well," he said, slipping the envelope into his coat. "Exceedingly well."

* * *

Angelo didn't tend to open on a Tuesday and so Sherlock and John had the place to themselves. Sherlock had pushed all the chairs and tables back so that they had the floor, spread a map of London over it and they ate, studying it and sitting on it.

Mycroft's gift to him had been the most up to date map of the tunnel system underneath London, the thing already stored on the phone.

"But it would be quicker just to get the northern line," John argued.

"Not in rush hour traffic," Sherlock muttered. "The tunnel system would be quicker then."

"You'd need a key," John added.

Sherlock threw him a pained look.

"What? If you're trying to be quick then you would. I've seen you pick a lock," John added, rolling over to stare up at him. "You're so slow."

What?

"Right," Sherlock put the phone down and practically picked up his son leading him to the door. "How fast can you do it then?" he asked, slipping a hair pin into the locked cupboard.

"I'm young, still developing," John held out his hands for Sherlock's tools. "And rusty," he added.

Sherlock already had the door open.

"Still slower than Mum."

* * *

Next Chapter: Rugby


	12. Rugby

Rugby

Thanks to NicolettelliW for editing :)

* * *

"Dad?"

Dad?

Sherlock paused in adjusting the focus on the shorn off knife. It wasn't dark and his son wasn't tired. Nor did he sound to be in emotional distress.

Was 'Dad' a full time thing now?

"Yes?" he asked, turning his head and feeling decidedly off balance.

"Can I have a favour?" John asked hopefully, scuffing his shoes on the floorboards.

Oh. Bribery. And a poor attempt at that. "What is it?" Sherlock asked, returning to the lens.

"Can you sign this permission slip?"

"I am not going," Sherlock warned him. "I went twice to your school. That surely allows me at least another few months of freedom."

"You don't have to go to anything," John promised. "Just, can you sign it?"

"Or pay for anything?"

There was a suspicious silence. "Uh…" John seemed to be scanning whatever it was he was holding. "No, not really."

"Or buy anything?" Sherlock added, glancing at the picture next to him, then hissing when he saw that the image didn't match what he was seeing down the lens.

"No," John was close now. "It's a permission slip for me to be in the Rugby team."

Oh.

"Why do I need to give permission?"

"You just do," John sighed. A year ago his son would have flailed at that and been apologetic. Now, he was just matter of fact.

How quickly they grew.

"I'm busy," Sherlock picked up the next broken knife. "You sign it."

"You have to sign it-"

"Forge my signature then," Sherlock suggested.

There was a very long pause. "Seriously?" John asked with delight.

Amused, Sherlock pulled a piece of paper forward and scribbled his signature on it. "There," he said. "Practise with that."

"You could just have signed the slip-"

"And then we would have this problem again another day. Best deal with it now. A far more economical use of my time."

He heard John sit at the table and the scrawl of a pen every so often as his son worked on perfecting the signature.

"Yes," Sherlock announced when finally a broken knife matched the one he had on the photo. Studying the handle he hummed thoughtfully. "Liquid nitrogen," he murmured. "How did that-"

"Is this good enough?" John asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Sherlock glanced over. "No."

* * *

"I really need you to sign it," John complained the next evening when Sherlock popped in quickly.

"Then get better at forging."

He almost heard the swearing that was probably going on in John's head.

* * *

When he returned three days later and John came home from school after an extended stay with his parents, John wouldn't talk to him.

At all.

"He nearly missed out on getting on the team," his father scolded him as John ran off upstairs. "Why on earth didn't you sign it?"

"He…" Sherlock fumbled for a moment, relatively sure that his method was not one his parents would sanction. "I-"

His father waited.

Fine.

"I told him to forge my signature. Hardly my fault if he was slow at managing it."

His father pinched his lips together. "Putting aside that truly stupid idea-"

It was hardly stupid-

"-the boys have to show eagerness to be on the team. How was John meant to explain that he was delaying handing in his permission slip because his father wanted him to be a master forger?"

"It was a permission slip, not the Mona Lisa," Sherlock muttered. "Hardly a master forger-"

"Sherlock!"

* * *

It was a good thing John had a forgiving nature and couldn't maintain a sulk for more than three hours.

"You have the hardest signature," John complained.

"Of course I do. It's to stop it being forged."

* * *

Within a month Sherlock was starting to wish he had just said 'no' in the first place.

John and his father were bonding.

A lot.

As a child Mycroft had an abhorrence of physical activity; partly due to the fact that changing would always raise a few awkward questions about the dotted scars he had and mostly due to the fact that Mycroft simply disliked being in the middle of the action. He had always preferred to observe at a distance and issue orders.

Sherlock himself had simply hated relying on others to win. How was it fair if they dragged the team down and they lost? By the time he'd been John's age he'd been banned from team sports and rotated around the individual sports depending on how long an instructor could stand him.

No-one had ever trusted him enough to put him through to compete for the school. It was their loss because he had always enjoyed beating others and demonstrating his superior skill. Though, oddly, it was understandable given that he did – on the rare and completely understandable occasion! – have a habit of arguing with judges. The point was that his parents had never had a child in a school team before, a fact both he and Mycroft knew had secretly disappointed their father.

John was like the saviour sent from above.

His father went to watch the practise, the games, talked endlessly about it at Sunday lunch. There had actually come a point where both he and Mycroft had avoided Sunday dinner just to avoid hearing about the inane game.

His father had toned it down a little after that.

Just a little though.

And John was delighted with the attention. And at spending time with his grandfather.

Strange boy.

This was the only sport he would allow John. He'd barely see his son otherwise.

* * *

Two sisters, dead at the same time by what looked like the same killer.

Delicious.

"Stop looking so sodding pleased," Lestrade hissed at him as Sherlock stood over the bed of the eldest sister, who lived at least twenty minutes away from the younger.

"Why?"

"Because her husband is in the next room," Lestrade growled. "And is a fucking lawyer. Show some respect."

Which made sense because the murder was too interesting to be thrown off of.

Then Sherlock's phone started to play Chopin's Funeral March.

"That's you," Lestrade snarled.

That wasn't his…he hadn't-

Pulling out the phone only made the song louder and he frowned at his father's contact details.

"Sherlock!"

Oh.

John.

That was not amusing…though oddly wonderful. An irritating smile threatened-

"Answer it," Lestrade pleaded, looking as if he were on the edge of having some form of apoplexy.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, watching as the widower snarled at an officer.

"Sherlock?" his father sounded panicked. "Don't panic-"

Never a good way to start a conversation.

"-John broke his arm."

Broke his arm?

Suddenly all Sherlock could see was the miserable looking ten year old in the kitchen at the children's home, so subdued and scared he didn't even dare ask for a drink.

Broke his arm?"

"How?" Sherlock snarled down the phone, even as he stepped out of the room and made his way downstairs, oblivious to Lestrade's concerned calls and the widowers growing whining.

"On the Rugby pitch, there was a tackle," his father sounded worried. "Sherlock, they think he's broken his arm before-"

That was hardly the concern.

His son's mental state was.

* * *

"You're a doctor today?" John asked, with an odd smile as Sherlock entered his room.

Not really wanting to remember the last time he had seen John in a hospital bed and made all kinds of stupid mistakes, Sherlock went to the bed and bent over, stoking the boy's hair.

"Are you all right?" he asked, scanning John's face for a sign of distress.

"Still hurts," John muttered, looking down at his arm. "They're gonna plaster it," he added sounding a little peeved. "I'll miss the matches."

As if Sherlock gave a damn about that. "Are you sure?" he asked, not wanting to push the issue too much in case his concern raised ghosts that John didn't yet have.

John rolled his eyes. "It was a good reason to break my arm this time," he said. "Nearly scored."

Chuckling, Sherlock sat on the edge of John's bed. "Your grandfather would have been intolerable had you managed it."

"Next time," John promised, a little woosy from the painkillers. "Where is he?"

Sherlock looked around, the thought occurring to him too. "I'm not sure."

* * *

His father was quiet when Sherlock found him standing in the hallway, frowning at a coffee machine.

Too quiet.

As Sherlock's father drove them home, Sherlock inwardly sighed.

At least John would be far too out of it to hear their row. The boy had already buried his head in Sherlock's chest to snore gently, despite the tension.

Tightening his grip on his son, Sherlock stared out of the window.

It had been going far too well. It was bound to end, sooner or later.

* * *

"You knew he had broken his arm before," Lucian said as his son returned from tucking John in upstairs, cast and all.

"Yes," Sherlock didn't even look apologetic.

"And you never thought to tell us?"

"Oh," Sherlock shrugged. "I hadn't realised you were unaware. Mycroft knew," he added with a sly look.

"You didn't think I had a right to know that someone threatened my grandson and broke his arm?"

There was a sudden tightness to Sherlock's jaw and he sat petulantly in the chair, turning his back to Lucian as he read the instructions on the pills John had been given.

"Sherlock," Lucian banged his fist on the table, safe in the knowledge that John had been given enough medication to keep him asleep throughout any argument.

"He'd healed," Sherlock muttered. "I simply forgot to bring it up. There was no great conspiracy-"

"How could you forget that your son had been assaulted?"

"Because I let it," Sherlock snarled, throwing himself from the chair. "I let it happen. I didn't take him in straight away, I ignored him and they hurt him because of it."

Oh.

Lucian sunk to the chair.

"No lecture?" Sherlock continued on, sounding utterly infuriated. "No pointing out that I should have gone to you so you could have taken him?"

"Sherlock-"

"I'm glad I didn't," Sherlock added, his voice dripping with venom, "because you would never have given him back. I'm glad and that's…" he stumbled back as if suddenly drained. "That's not good," he muttered, sinking into the seat closest to him.

"You can't ignore it," Lucian said slowly, watching his son. It was painful to watch; harder still knowing the things that were likely going through Sherlock's head.

They'd all gone through Lucian's, for both of his sons.

"I am aware of that. John had a nightmare months ago about it," Sherlock sounded exhausted, hand over his eyes.

"It's the worst feeling, isn't it?" Lucian asked slowly. "To know you failed to protect your child."

Sherlock said nothing.

"And you're right. We wouldn't have given him back."

Sherlock made no move, just sighed.

"You're good with him. Stunningly good," Lucian watched his son carefully. "Better than me."

There was a long pause before Sherlock dropped his hand away and let it dangle over the edge of the chair. "You did well with Mycroft," he said, glaring at something. "You and I…we were never going to get on after everything."

It hurt.

So much.

He'd thought they'd been doing better, that Sherlock was actually warming to him again, but his son was a consummate actor; he should have remembered that.

"No," Lucian said, struggling to keep his hurt out of his voice. "I suppose so."

* * *

Sherlock drew the bow across the strings as he watched his father's shadow disappear into the car.

Confirmed then.

His father would never forgive him for what he had done to Mycroft. Slowly, Sherlock played, frowning at how long it took his father to drive away.

* * *

Next Chapter: Death


	13. Death

Death

Warning: For a death!

Thank you to all who have reviewed and read this story so far :)

* * *

It was such a pain in the arse having a broken arm again. More annoying than last time because at least then he hadn't had to put up with his mates getting to do all the things he couldn't do.

But everyone wanted to draw on his plaster cast. Jo Dunwood actually sat during RE and drew a cartoon right by his elbow that everyone wanted to see at lunch.

Grandpa and Sherlock weren't talking again, which sucked big time. They could be so stupid sometimes. Grandpa was really quiet and Sherlock refused to talk to him properly.

Even Mycroft seemed relatively baffled by it; which made sense as John had assumed Sherlock had been angry about the whole arm being broken during a match thing, but Sherlock had pulled a face as if John were stupid for even suggesting it.

"Do I look like I want to wrap you in cotton wool? Do you have any idea how insufferably boring you would be?" Sherlock had asked.

So John had no idea what their problem was. But it made having the broken arm even worse because everyone had been fine until that had happened.

* * *

Sherlock was on a case that had, according to his ecstatic phone call at seven o 'clock in the morning, gone very well. Grandpa dropped John off at school, still quiet and obviously distracted.

Grandpa needed a hobby like Sherlock. That might cheer him up a bit.

"Didn't think you'd be in today," Max said with a worried look at Chris who, when John turned was making a slicing motion across his throat with his hands.

"Why?" John asked, trying to shove his things into his locker even as he cast a longing glance at his PE kit.

Three more weeks.

At least.

"Well…you know…because of…of your Grandpa," Max said and then yelped. "Ow, flaming hell, what you do that for?"

"Just shut it," Chris hissed. "It's not-"

"Does everyone know?" John asked, turning and screwing his nose up. Maybe Grandpa's problem was something else then if everyone knew what it was.

"Yeah," Max said, even as Chris blinked in confusion. "My Mum and Dad were talking about it this morning. He went down like a stone. And a heart attack? Who saw that one coming? No offence," Max added quickly. "But…you know. He was a bit of a wanker."

"Heart attack?" John swallowed. "When-"

The bell went and Chris opened his mouth-

"Get to class boys," Mr Adams said, walking past. "Chris, come with me, let's not have you late again. I'm getting bored of seeing your face at late detention; it'd be so nice to have a change."

Chris scowled at him. "No-one else has a problem with their form being late," he said with an envious glare at John.

"Well aren't you lucky that I take a personal interest in you. I'll be expecting a thank you card in my pigeon hole tomorrow," Mr Adams said, reaching out a hand to steer Chris, even as he continued to read whatever letter was in his hand. "I'll let you off if you guide me to form," he bargained.

"Yeah," Chris shrugged. "Be nice to go home on time for once."

John smiled weakly as Chris walked off and Max had vanished almost instantly as he had the strictest teacher in the school as his form tutor.

Heart attack?

Grandpa had a heart attack?

Panicked, John pulled his bag back out of his locker.

Like fuck he was staying at school.

* * *

"Dad?"

That sounded like John.

That sounded a lot like John.

Exchanging a look with Lestrade, Sherlock checked his watch.

9.43am. Wednesday.

"Kid," Lestrade said, standing up and away from the body. "Seriously? You truant and then come and find the police? How good of you to do my job for me."

"Dad," John said, sounding much more panicked.

That didn't sound like he needed a favour.

Why did John always pick the good cases to have a problem?

With a reluctant sigh, Sherlock stood and stripped off the gloves. "Turn," he ordered John. The corpse 's face had been mutilated from being slammed repetitively against a sink and his son was probably a few years off such things.

"It's important-"

"How do you get past the officers?" Lestrade asked, stepping over to John and presumably turning the boy around. "Have you paid them off?"

"Please," John sounded a little more like his normal self. "I just threaten Dad on them."

Three Dad's in two minutes.

Was the boy dying?

Dumping the gloves, Sherlock turned and strode over to his son. "Come along and be succinct," he added, casting a longing look back at the body.

They strode around the corner and John turned to him with worried eyes.

"Did Grandpa have a heart attack?" he asked with a small waver in his voice.

He had no idea.

"I…Why?" he asked, feeling a slight stirring of panic. Surely Mycroft would have told him. "Did something happen this morning?"

John nodded, eyes looking a little bright. "Max said that his parents were talking about Grandpa having a heart attack, they said he went down like a stone."

No.

His father couldn't have-

He wasn't-

Sherlock leaned back against the wall, his heart thudding so manically he almost worried he was in danger of having one himself. It would have had to have been this morning-

"When did you last see him?" he asked.

"He dropped me off at school," John said earnestly.

What?

More baffled then anything, Sherlock stood upright. "He dropped you off at school?" he asked, irritation colouring his voice.

"Yeah," John didn't seem to find anything wrong with that at all.

Good lord, he had raised an idiot.

"How on earth did he have a heart attack that your friend knew about if he dropped you off at school five minutes earlier?" Sherlock snapped.

"I meant recently," John snapped back, moving as if to fold his arms before remembering the cast. "You don't always die when you have a heart attack."

"No," Sherlock glared. "I would have mentioned that, at some point in the day. And he certainly wouldn't be driving you to school if he were recovering from such a thing."

John visibly relaxed. "Oh," he said taking a deep breath. "Phew!"

"Yes," Sherlock looked back at the body. "You have stupid friends."

John nodded, then paused, tilting his head as if a thought had just occurred to him. "Oh," he said, sounding more curious than anything.

"What?"

"He was talking about Nigel," John frowned. "He said he was a wanker and made a joke about him having a heart attack."

"Well, that should have been your first clue," Sherlock muttered.

Then: "Oh," he studied his son. "Are you all right?"

John nodded. "Do you think Mum knows?" he asked looking away.

"Probably not. Do you want me to stop by and tell her?"

John said nothing.

"Do you want to do it?" Sherlock asked, trying to work out what his son was feeling.

"No," John shook his head.

Maybe it was just the adjustment. "I'll call your grandparents," Sherlock decided. "Hardly worth you going back to school now."

John didn't even blink at the ridiculous statement.

* * *

"I don't care," John said as he curled up on Mycroft's sofa, surrounded in blankets.

For whatever reason, John has asked for him at dinner and his listless attitude had been enough that Mycroft had postponed his dinner meeting.

Indefinitely apparently.

"About Nigel?" Mycroft asked, handing him a hot chocolate.

John nodded.

"You didn't know him," Mycroft allowed, sitting in the chair opposite him. "And he was cruel to you and your mother."

John said nothing and inwardly Mycroft sighed.

"I…when I thought it was Grandpa…"John frowned at his feet, "I was scared. I didn't…I didn't want him to be hurt," he said. "But…I just don't care." He looked up at Mycroft with confused eyes. "Is that wrong?"

"No," Mycroft studied his nephew carefully. "Why would you care?"

"He was my grandfather," John's plastered arm hugged in close to his chest. "And I…I'm relieved," he pulled a disgusted face. "Who's relieved when their grandfather dies?"

"I toasted mine with a brandy," Mycroft informed him. "Slightly better than my father spitting at the grave but…each to their own."

John gaped at him and then shook himself. "Yeah but he hurt you-"

"Must we have this conversation again?" Mycroft asked calmly.

"No," John turned a little to properly face him. "But…I think feeling nothing is worse than something."

How he wished he'd felt nothing; nothing implied that the person wasn't important enough to feel something for.

"When did-" John broke himself off and looked away. "Never mind," he muttered.

"When I was nineteen," Mycroft said with a sigh. "I hadn't seen him for…just over seven years I suppose."

"Did he go away, like move away?" John asked.

"No, he went to prison. For child abuse."

John's eyes widened in amazement. "But…but I thought-"

"My father would settle for nothing less."

"Oh." John looked rather shell shocked by that. "So he died-"

"Alone, freed and poor," Mycroft smiled a little at the thought. "Weak."

Whatever crossed his face made John shift a little.

"Does…I didn't intend to disturb you," Mycroft said, taking a sip of his hot chocolate.

"No…" John put his chin on his drawn up knees. "I was just…I wish he'd known how it felt. To have nothing, to feel like nothing."

Mycroft stood and knelt by his nephew, frowning at the words. "John-"

"I know," John met his eyes with a weak smile. "I know, Dad's gone over it with me but…I still felt like it. And I wish he had. I wish…I wish he'd seen it all from Mum's point of view, just once."

It was a dangerous path to go down. Stroking John's cheek, Mycroft nodded, appreciating the sentiment if nothing else.

"It doesn't make you a bad person not to care, John. You are such a forgiving child. The blame lies with him, not you," Mycroft said sincerely. "Do you understand?"

"I just-"

"I know," Mycroft said. "And I promise you John. The world will know he was nothing."

Looking a little unconvinced, John nodded. "Do you think Mum will care?" he asked quietly.

Yes. "I think she'll want to see you," Mycroft said, side-stepping that little issue.

Nigel had done far too much to Anna for her not to care.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked with a sigh as Sherlock stared down at the newly lain grave.

Nigel had been buried a day ago.

"Keeping a promise," Sherlock said, staring at the name as he hefted the shovel.

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed.

"Anna asked if that was put on his grave that I remove it," Sherlock said gesturing to the words. "I find myself in utter agreement with her."

"Sherlock-"

"What?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and gestured into the dark.

"A shovel is hardly the best tool to use," Mycroft said. "And I have a promise of my own to keep."

* * *

John never visited the grave, not until he turned fifteen and was visiting another.

He stood, eyes wet this time as he started at the new grave, arms wrapped around himself against the February chill.

"John?"

Ignoring the voice, John turned and wandered through the graveyard, needing space. The location suited his mood as he tried to blink away endless tears.

Somehow, quite by accident, he found Nigel's grave and stared.

Once, there had been the words beloved husband, loving father and besotted grandfather.

Loving and besotted had been smashed, and cut at until only the bare remains of the word were left.

Underneath were words added in a different style.

_Nothing_.

"They replaced it three times," Sherlock said behind him. "Strangely, they never could find evidence as to who was doing it."

John traced the letters, then turned and threw himself into his father's arms. His Dad tightened his grip and pressed a long kiss to his hair.

"I promised your mother," he said into John's hair. "And Mycroft promised you."

"Thank you," he whispered.

* * *

Next Chapter: Bastard


	14. Bastard

Bastard

Author's Note: Probably the shortest first that you will see!

* * *

"What is wrong?"

His son sat, slumped on his bed, glaring at the television.

"John?"

"Nothing," came the muttered reply. "Go away."

"Is this some sort of teenage angst starting early?" Sherlock asked with distaste. God knew he'd hoped to avoid it as long as possible.

"Sure."

Sherlock left him to it. He certainly had better things to do than demand John talk to him.

That was what that therapist was for.

* * *

"John's upset," she told him as his son came barrelling out of the session and walked down the corridor without so much as a backwards glance.

"What preternatural skills allowed you to glean that information?" he snapped sarcastically.

She raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing.

"Well?" he demanded.

"How many times must we have this discussion? If John wishes you to come in, you may but I cannot pass on-"

Sherlock hissed in annoyance and stepped close to her, trying to work out what John had said.

"It's not serious," he decided. "You'd look more uncomfortable."

"Talk to your son."

* * *

"Aaron Madison called me a bastard," John eventually confessed tightly.

Sherlock turned the information around in his head, and then nodded.

Whatever it was John was waiting for, that wasn't it.

"Well?"

"You are," Sherlock said looking up from the blood slides. "I never married your mother and, be quite assured, I never will be."

"But-"

"I assume you have heard some of the less than favourable words used to describe me around the Yard?"

John nodded slowly, coming forward with all the hesitance of a baby deer. "Freak," he said, looking rather defensive about it.

The concern was touching, but unnecessary. "Do I collapse into an undignified heap of snot every time they use it?" he asked, changing slides and peering down the lens, but keeping John in the corner of his eye.

As if amused at the idea, John shook his head, fingers lightly skimming the table.

"Freak means abnormal. Am I normal?"

John shook his head frankly.

"Then they are correct. That those idiots use a fact as an insult is merely a reflection of their poor vocabulary and lack of imagination. Hardly your problem."

Sherlock noted down the difference between the control slide and the contaminated one, feeling John's gaze linger. He ignored it; his son would come to his own conclusion soon enough.

"Probably shouldn't call people a wanker any more then, should I?" John asked eventually, a smile in his voice.

"No, awful insult," Sherlock busied himself with the microscope.

* * *

"Oi, bastard."

Lestrade blinked and turned around. Sherlock was upstairs, almost gleefully writhing over the two bodies found in the wall of a building. John on the other hand, was sat on a wall with a DS game.

There wasn't even a flicker on John's face. "Yeah?" he asked, sounding bored.

Jesus; like father, like son.

"Still in school uniform you little geek?"

"Sure."

"Or are you not allowed home? Do they not like having the little bastard?"

"Yes."

Lestrade nearly laughed when he saw the boys' face screw up in confusion. "Admitting it are you?" one asked.

"Sure."

Then one knocked the game out of John's hands and Lestrade unfolded himself from where he'd been leaning against the doorway. It was one thing to let the lads get on with it – God knew John could take a bit of a verbal bashing, living with Sherlock would teach anyone that- but this?

Despite being outnumbered, John had stood off the wall and squared his chin. "Pick it up," he said quietly.

"Go fuck yourself, Watson."

Then one kicked at it, his foot almost making contact before Lestrade cleared his throat.

They all froze, John's eyes rolling in annoyance while the other three scanned him carefully. The leader snorted.

"What?"

Lestrade nodded at one of the cars parked by the house, the word police clearly printed on the side.

"We ain't doin' nuffin'."

Lestrade let his eyes drop down to the game. "Breaking it or nicking it?" he asked calmly.

"Like we care about his stupid game," the leader shrugged, backing away throwing his hands up. "See you at school, Watson."

Lestrade waited until the boys had gone before looking back at John. "Want me to arrest them?" he offered.

John smiled suddenly, "Nah. Thanks for not…you know…being embarrassing."

"You all right?"

"Yeah," John shrugged and bent to pick up the console. "They're just thick as."

Lestrade watched him, not entirely sure how the wide eyed ten year old had become the cool and calm twelve year old before him. Suddenly overcome with it, he reached out a hand to the boy's shoulders. "John, about what they called you-"

"Technically I am," John shrugged with a grin. "Their dumb-arse fault if they think facts are insults."

Lestrade could almost hear Sherlock in his words.

Well, apart from the 'dumb-arse' bit.

* * *

"Will you be here all night?" Lestrade asked as he walked back up.

"In this position?" Sherlock asked pedantically.

"Want me to call Mycroft?"

Sherlock glanced up. "John's here?" he asked with some confusion.

"You didn't know?"

As if trying to work out a particularly trying puzzle, Sherlock leaned back on his heels thoughtfully, and then rolled his eyes. "I take it he was followed?"

"Some lads. They were looking to get a rise out of him."

Sherlock actually chuckled.

"And that's funny because?"

"Inspector…" Sherlock looked tickled. "My son is beloved by my brother, half the people that work for my brother, his mother's friends, my homeless network and clients. Anyone who actually knows who I am, who his mother is or who his uncle is knows not to touch him."

"Your point?"

"Your way of dealing with it is the least 'embarrassing'," Sherlock looked back down. "Believe me, if they were genuinely annoying John, he'd have walked them to the Diogenes or Whitechapel."

"And if he were actually scared?" Lestrade asked, folding his arms.

"He'd have climbed the stairs," Sherlock looked up innocently. "Tell him Angelo is expecting him and will likely attempt to give him early diabetes if it's a slow night."

"I'm the least embarrassing?" Lestrade asked, gaping. "Well that ain't right," he growled to himself as Sherlock reached to peel back the left over skin.

"I know," Sherlock sighed, shoving his fingers into the flap he'd created. "I hate nagging him to cook something healthy. It's disgustingly dull."


	15. Consulting Teen

Consulting Teen

Lestrade's a bit stuck on a case...

Thanks to chappysmom for helping me bounce some ideas around to get rid of the block for this. If you're at all interested then I have written a short AU for this verse where Anna told them Holmes family she was keeping John. It's on a03 under the same pen name if you get bored enough to look :P

* * *

Greg watched Sherlock bend over the body of the dead girl. Poor thing, he thought sadly, staring at her rather young face. Seventeen years old and dead.

Seventeen…his eldest was seventeen, youngest fifteen. It was hard to keep them out of your head when dealing with vics that age. Watching Sherlock peer at her, at the deep cuts across her wrists, Greg wondered if John ever haunted Sherlock when they dealt with kids his age.

"Your thoughts are not helpful," Sherlock said, studying her necklace intently.

"You never see John when looking at this?" Greg asked frankly.

"I would want to know what had happened," Sherlock murmured, darting down to the ring on her third finger. "Not have the investigator curled up in a ball, babbling useless sympathy."

"It's suicide," Greg said, watching Sherlock. "Why are you interested in this?"

"Their reaction," Sherlock said, almost sounding as if he were barely paying attention to their conversation. "Her reaction was more confusion than anything else. His was pitch perfect."

Sherlock stood suddenly as if something had occurred to him. "Find her emails, her messages, texts, anything. There's something about the boyfriend-"

"Boyfriend," Greg asked.

"And have the coroner check for evidence of sexual activity," Sherlock added, stripping off his gloves.

"What…what am I looking for?" Greg called as Sherlock went to the door.

"Nothing."

* * *

"Holmes with you?" Stu asked as Greg got back into the office.

"No, ran off," Greg said, heading to his office.

"Got something of his in there," Stu called after him.

What? More evidence that Sherlock wanted to-

John.

The boy looked up as Greg walked in, his eyes darting behind Greg expectantly. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Tracking a lead," Greg answered. Or running after criminals, breaking every law that ever existed.

Probably some mix of the two.

John's shoulders fell and he leaned back in annoyance, glaring moodily at the desk.

"I take it he was meant to meet you here?" Greg asked, shutting the door, slightly amused that the twelve year old was sitting in his seat.

At least he wasn't rummaging around in the drawers and hacking the computer like his father did.

John nodded. "Grandma and Grandpa are away visiting friends and Mycroft's got a meeting in Brussels."

"So it's just you two," Greg asked.

John nodded. "Well and Mrs Hudson but…" he pulled a face, "she has a 'gentleman friend'," he said using air quotes, "and it's gross."

Greg didn't even bother to hide his amusement. "That she's kissing someone or that it's her doing the kissing?"

"The kissing," John assured him. "At least Sherlock doesn't do it."

And that was a mind-field that Greg never wanted to go down. "So I guess you're stuck with me then, kid."

John nodded.

"You got homework to do?"

John rolled his eyes and nodded.

"Good. Get out of my chair you cheeky git," Greg said, dragging another chair to the other side of his desk. "You can sit here. What's the topic?"

"History," John mumbled as he stood and then threw himself into the chair Greg had indicated.

The boy could be so startlingly like his father at times.

"From what time?" Greg asked, sitting himself in his chair and tapping in his password.

"World War Two," John said with zero enthusiasm. "It's always World War Two. It's so boring," he added mutinously.

Opening up his emails, Greg glanced at him. "What about the soldiers fighting oversees?"

"They hid in holes and the got shot when people told them to charge," John pulled a face. "Just depended on who had the most cannon fodder."

Greg tried not to smile. "En mass it's boring," he agreed. "You ever thought about just looking up one person and learning about them?"

The text transcript was over. And her email account. Facebook page, myspace.

"Like?"

Greg tried to do a quick calculation in his head. "Great grandparents?" he asked, a little unsure as to how old Sherlock's parents were. He could pretty much guess that they were too young to have been born in the war, their parents' generation was a possibility. "You know much about them?"

"That he went to prison for child abuse?" John asked, tilting his head as if unsure that was what Greg meant.

God, that was…unexpected. Trying to hide it, Greg just shook his head, keeping his eyes on the screen. "In the war. And I assume you had more than one great grandparent?" he asked.

"I don't know anything about any of them," John mumbled.

"Have a look. It might interest you. Then, once you want to know more about them, you'll find the whole topic a bit more interesting."

"Thanks," John said, sounding a little taken-aback.

"I liked History," Greg said with a smile. "Sorting through sources, trying to find an answer, finding proof," he winked at John. "No idea why I did this job," he teased.

John flashed him a smile. "What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

"Looking through a girl's messages for a case," Greg said, searching for all the ones sent from her boyfriend's phone.

"Can I look?" John asked, peering.

"Homework first," Greg answered absently as he scanned them. Pretty typical teenage stuff, he thought.

"But I haven't looked up about my great grandparents yet," John wheedled. "I'll just rush it and I won't learn anything."

Greg looked over at him and then nodded ruefully.

Apparently he was as much of a pushover for junior as he was senior.

"See," he said, when John peered at it all. "I have to compile evidence so this will need to be printed off and any relevancies highlighted to be shown to a jury in court. Same with her facebook page," Greg said, switching windows.

John tilted his head as he frowned at it.

Oh god.

No.

He was not being outdone in this by a twelve year old. Sherlock Holmes was bad enough. Greg jumped his gaze to the screen, trying to see whatever it was that had caught John's attention.

In the end, slightly mortified he had to do it, Greg steeled himself and sighed. "What?" he asked, trying not to sound too snappish.

"You said she had a boyfriend," John muttered.

"Yeah, look," Greg hovered his mouse over the 'in a relationship' status on the page.

"Does her boyfriend not have a page?"

Good point. Glancing at the name, Greg searched her friends list.

"Apparently not."

"What about MSN?" John asked.

Obediently, Greg looked. "No…no. Nothing. Plenty of texts though."

John pulled a face. "That's stupid. MSN's free. So's facebook chat. Why text?"

Good question, Greg supposed. Then bit back an annoyed noise when John took the mouse and changed back to the texts and pulled another face.

"He's old," John muttered.

Greg looked at him. He's seen a few cases of paedophiles on the internet, there was usually a crossover between divisions when that occurred but there was no hint whatsoever of sexual activity according to the prelim reports and those that stalked young girls on the internet were damn professional at it.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, trying to humour John.

"He's using numbers," John muttered, pointing at the screen. "Most phones have touch screens or blackberry keyboards now; you have to swap screens to get numbers up. Even if you have a phone that isn't touch screen you don't use numbers. It's what old people do," he added with a sneer. "Why do adults think we use this," he added with a glare. "We don't have character limits or have to press a button a million times for a letter. Grandpa always seems amazed that I use punctuation-"

Cutting the rant off mid-stream, Greg held up a hand as he turned that over.

Jesus, the boy was right. His two never used numbers in their texts. And they could be long texts as well, which always pissed him of because he could never understand why they just didn't call-

Which added even more weight to the fact that this was not a professional internet predator.

It was in that moment that Greg had a Sherlock Holmes moment.

The ring; expensive. The necklace had been cheap from Argos.

Ordered over the internet.

He looked over the texts again. Always they had met in the dark which was suspicious anyway, without her poor eyesight. Messages asking for more and, reading them again with his suspicion, the 'boy' was always hesitant, backing off in a way very few teenage boys would do when faced with such willingness.

Greg brought up her file again.

Heiress to her father's fortune.

Eighteen next month.

Next to inherit: her mother.

"Shit."

* * *

As it turned out, when they got the mother and step-father in, the mother had thought the plan was to keep her daughter at home, to put off a relationship with a faked one to give them longer to enjoy the money. The girl had been persuaded not to go to university and instead help out in her mother's coffee shop business.

The step-father had held up until the mother had confessed, then broken down and confessed that it had been a stupid plan. That she'd wanted more, a physical relationship that he just hadn't been willing to give her.

Greg shifted, a little uncomfortable at how clearly horrified the man had been by the idea of having sex with his step-daughter, how absolutely out of the question that had been. Admirable, in some ways Greg thought. There would have been plenty that would have seen it as a bonus.

But there was something…utterly genuine as the man was being about the sexual aspect of it all and his reluctance, there was something nagging.

The man had sent a letter; cruel and crushing that was apparently meant to swear her off men for life. And something about the way he mentioned it made Lestrade uncertain.

Still, that could have been deeply hidden fury at the fact that Sherlock had vanished with said letter and hadn't answered any texts for hours.

* * *

"My great-grandpa was a pilot," John announced to Greg as he walked back into his office. The boy had obviously decided that because Greg wasn't using the computer it was up for dibs.

"Yeah?"

John nodded. "And his wife…they had three kids and one died in the blitz," he said sadly. "He never got to meet his son."

How close history had come to repeating itself, Greg thought watching the boy that Sherlock had never known about.

* * *

In the end he sent Ray out for Macdonalds as a treat to John for helping him solve the case.

"You know Sherlock won't like this," John said as he bit into his Quarter Pounder with Cheese. "He hates this type of fast food."

Greg grinned. "Shame, isn't it?"

* * *

"Arrest the step-father," Sherlock announced, banging into Greg's office at ten past ten.

John jolted up from where he'd been sleeping on the sofa while Greg did his paperwork.

"Have done," Greg said mildly, taking a sip of cold coffee to hide his smile.

He's have to do this more often, he thought as Sherlock gaped at him.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, oblivious to his grinning son sitting up behind him.

"Texts," Greg said, putting the coffee down. "He used numbers in his texts. Kids don't do that. And he wasn't on facebook or using instant messaging so it wasn't an internet predator. No sexual assault. Thanks though, for stealing the letter. That slowed us down," he added with a glare.

Sherlock looked frankly heartbroken as he sat down. "Numbers," he muttered. "How did you-"

"Consulted an expert," Greg said, almost unable to keep the grin from his face as John beamed.

"Of course, rooky mistakes only a parent would make-"

John sniggered.

Looking startled by the noise, Sherlock turned to look at his son and then hissed. "Ah. We were meant to meet-" he trailed off and whipped his head back to Greg who smiled.

"You solved my case?" Sherlock demanded of John.

"No," John protested. "I just pointed out about the texts and MSN and facebook."

"And I can't hold the step-father," Greg pointed out. "He didn't mean for her to kill herself."

Sherlock stared at him and then rolled his eyes. "He did it, you moron. Did you not read that teenage angst of hers? She wanted to be beautiful. She'd have dressed herself up, set the scene, swallowed pills or poison. Her youtube history shows that god-awful Romeo and Juliet scene over and over again. She would not have done it dressed in an old nightgown with her hair messed up and without even concealing the spot on her chin. There was no hesitation in the cut, no worry or confusion as to how hard to press. The second one was even firmer than the first, a feat given that she would have been in pain greater than she would have ever felt in her life-"

"Yes," Greg hissed at him. "Fine. I'll go arrest him then."

Sherlock nodded. "Good."

"Did you know Grandma's Dad was a pilot?" Greg heard John ask Sherlock as he walked out.

"Yes. It was obvious from his left thumb."

Greg rolled his eyes as he walked away.

* * *

Next Chapter: Winner - John wins a game of chess and Sherlock is starting to realise just how much his son is growing up.


	16. Winner

Winner

John finally gets the hang of chess...

Thank you to Chappysmom for the plotting and to NicolettelliW for betaing :)

* * *

There was a chance.

Trying not to let it show on his face, John dug his hand into the crisp packet lying next to his leg and felt around for a crisp.

Across from him, Grandpa looked up from the chess board and glared at him in a very Sherlock way. "Must you eat those while we play this?" Grandpa asked with a sigh. "My chess pieces will smell like Salt and Vinegar for years to come."

"But," the twelve year old said as he crunched, "Let's face it, pretty much everything is going to be mine one day and they may as well get used to smelling like crisps."

Grandpa shook his head, a half smile on his face. "You can be such a spoiled brat at times," he said.

"Like father, like son," John shrugged. "Are you going to make a move or what?"

Grandpa's hand lingered for a moment on the Knight closest to him before moving to the Queen.

_Chess, _Mycroft had murmured to John when he was ten and still trying to remember the moves, _Is like poker. A player can be read as eas__ily as the board._

"How is your father?" Grandpa asked. "I assume it's been a good month for him?"

John nodded but let his eyes linger on Grandpa's hand. "Yeah, he's happy. He got a thief the other day. The man would only steal on Mondays."

"Why?" Grandpa asked, looking amused.

"Didn't like them," John said rolling his eyes. "Lestrade started singing a song about not liking Mondays. Sherlock hated it. All Lestrade had to do was hum under his breath and he'd sulk."

"Check," Grandpa said, moving the bishop.

John smiled and made his move.

"Checkmate," he said, then blinked at the board to double check.

Yes! Definitely check mate!

Grandpa stared at the board in shock then smiled. "You tricked me," he murmured, sounding surprised.

"Yeah…" John faltered for a moment. "Mycroft said I could do that."

Grandpa nodded, "No, he's right. That's as much a part of it I just…I underestimated you."

"Most do."

* * *

"I rule," John announced to Mrs Hudson.

"That's nice for you," she said, ignoring his tone. "You need to have a shower."

He so couldn't be bothered with that. "But I won," he said, trying to wheedle out of it. "So-"

"You won what dear?" she asked, turning to him in that deceptively sweet way of hers.

"I…the game," John said, a little wary. "Of chess."

"And how does that make you immune from needing to shower?"

Uh…"I smell of victory?" John asked cautiously.

She folded her arms and looked at him.

"I'll go shower."

* * *

Sherlock got back in at two in the morning.

John crept down and peered around the door, studying him as his father sat at the table and seemed to be studying what looked like mouldy salad.

"I would not use the excuse that you are hungry as a reason to be up," Sherlock said without looking away from the disgusting looking stuff. "I need to feed this to someone; it may as well be you."

Pulling a face, John wandered over. "Who's gonna eat that?" he asked.

"Why are you awake? It's a school night."

"It's also the Easter Holidays," John pointed out.

"Ah," Sherlock looked as if he were momentarily tempted to remember that, and then seemed to dismiss it. "Fetch me the takeaway box at the bottom of the fridge then."

"Does that have manky food in it too?" John asked, wandering over to the fridge.

"Yes."

A little disgusted by the idea, John fetched it and dumped it on the table before taking a seat opposite his father.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, looking between the salad and something on his phone.

"I beat Grandpa at chess," John said.

There was a pause as Sherlock looked over at him, as if startled to remember that there were other people on the planet.

"Easily?"

John shook his head. "Fifty minutes," he sighed. "But I did trick him into not seeing my strategy."

A pleased smile crossed Sherlock's lips. "Did you indeed?" he asked, leaning back.

John tried to grin as he yawned. "Yep."

"You're tired," Sherlock said after a minute. "Why are you awake?"

"I wanted to tell you," John said trying to find a comfy spot to sleep in.

The next thing he knew Sherlock was tugging him up and out of the chair and herding him up the stairs.

"'m sleepy," John complained, leaning into him.

"It could have waited until morning," Sherlock said in an odd tone.

"Wanted you to know," John yawned as Sherlock opened his bedroom door. "Thought you'd be happy."

The covers were drawn over him. "Text me next time. It appears carrying you up the stairs is no longer an option," Sherlock didn't sound at all pleased.

"I grew half an inch this month," John told him, turning into the pillow.

"Don't," Sherlock instructed sounding a bit moody still as he pressed a kiss to John's hair. "Don't grow up."

"I can help then," John mumbled. "Could back you up at a crime scene."

He fell asleep before he heard the reply.

* * *

"Beaten by a twelve year old," Sherlock crowed the next time he saw his father. "Dreadful business, going senile."

His father sighed. "And what has you in this especially pleasant mood today?"

Nothing.

Except for the fact he's been displeased all week at the fact he could no longer carry John up the stairs without risking them both tumbling and breaking their necks.

"You're early," his father said turning back into the house. "You'll have to wait; neither Chris or Jayden's parents are here yet to collect them and John can't really leave before they do."

Boring rules.

As if sensing the thought, his father turned to him. "You are always more than welcome to invite John's friends to the flat."

"Amusing," Sherlock muttered following his father into the conservatory that looked out at the garden where the boys were having some competition with a football.

For a moment he thought he was looking in the wrong garden.

Jayden, who he'd seen a handful of times in passing had shot up like a weed. What was more worrying was that, in comparison, John and Chris didn't look that much younger.

They certainly didn't look like little boys any more.

"Sherlock?" his mother was asking. "Did you want coffee?"

Her tone indicated it wasn't the first time she had asked.

He nodded, distracted by the sight.

"Jayden's sprung up hasn't he?" his father said standing next to him. "John seems determined that the same will happen to him any day now."

No. Scowling at the thought, Sherlock glared at his son as if he could will him to stop aging.

"They can't stay little forever," his father continued, sounding sad.

"Clearly not," Sherlock snapped.

He'd missed John being really little. Images of an earnest towheaded five year old following him around with awe and an innocent delight John had never really had, haunted Sherlock some days.

What if…

Foolish to speculate.

"Still," Sherlock said, shaking himself. "Beaten by a twelve year old," he shook his head in disappointment.

"He's good," his father defended. "Have you ever played John?"

Yes. But Sherlock could read his son like a book. He barely had to glance at the board to see the moves. It stunned him that others couldn't see into John's head; it was so easy.

"Mycroft's teaching him well," his father added slyly.

"Mycroft has a made a career of it, he should be somewhat useful at teaching chess," Sherlock muttered peeved.

"Ah. Do does that mean you are teaching John to be a master at Cluedo?"

How droll.

* * *

Three days later John came flying onto the crime scene, ducked past Lestrade and actually jumped over the body to where Sherlock stood, watching with amusement at the horror in Lestrade's face.

"Dad!" John called, skidding to a stop. "Guess what?"

Behind him Lestrade looked like he was on the verge of having some sort of fit, while the other officers were verging between amused and annoyed.

"You've taken up long jump," Sherlock asked nodding pointedly at the corpse.

"I beat Mycroft."

No.

That had not happened.

Sherlock gaped at his son, trying to work out how…had Mycroft let John beat him? Had he been sick?

John waited, watching him eagerly.

Several times Sherlock tried to say something and failed.

In the end he grudgingly cleared his throat. "Well done," he said, feeling as if the words were being ripped out of him.

John blinked, looking a little deflated and turned.

Then backed up in horror. "That's gross," he hissed, turning his head into Sherlock's chest at the sight of the bashed up face from a repeated beating against a sink.

Well, at least they both had something terrible to deal with.

* * *

"Can I have chocolate for breakfast as I beat Mycroft?

"Can I watch the rugby, seeing as I beat Mycroft?"

"Can I chose the takeaway? You know, because I beat Mycroft?"

A week Sherlock managed.

Privately, he was impressed with himself.

* * *

"He beat you?" Sherlock hissed at Mycroft as John and their father vanished to look through an old map before lunch.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "Look at mother's roses, aren't they coming up well-"

"Useless plant," Sherlock dismissed. "How did he beat you?"

"You sound like you doubt your son's abilities," Mycroft replied calmly.

"If I can't manage it then he certainly can't," Sherlock said, folding his arms. "Are you ill? Dying perhaps?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Mycroft took a sip of his sparkling water.

"How did he do it then?"

Mycroft tilted his head as if considering something. "I'm sorry, earlier, did you admit that you cannot beat me? I thought I was boring to play with because you could see all the moves."

Damn.

Lost for a moment, Sherlock glared at his brother.

No defence or justification was coming to mind.

"Of course I can beat you," Sherlock muttered. "But you do play a very dull game."

Mycroft waved a hand at the chess table and raised an eyebrow.

Well, he could hardly back out now. And maybe Mycroft had lost his touch if John had managed…

* * *

"What are you doing?" Bella asked them as they both sat by the door listening. "Dinner's almost ready-"

"Shush," John hissed up at her, ear pressed fiercely to the door. Amused, Lucian stroked the boy's hair as he looked up at his wife.

"They're playing chess," he told her with a smile. "Mycroft and Sherlock."

Confusion passed her over her face. "I thought Sherlock had vowed to never play Mycroft again?" she asked, sitting on a chair close to the door.

"How could he resist when John beat Mycroft?" Lucian asked innocently.

"How did you manage that?" Bella asked sounding frankly baffled

To be fair, Lucian had been too before John had explained.

"We agreed that if I managed to keep the game going for thirty minutes that I would beat him," John said distractedly. "I finally managed it this week. Not my fault Sherlock didn't ask how we defined it."

Grinning, Lucian winked at his wife.

"Do we dare go in?" Bella asked after a moment. "The salad will wilt."

Lucian glanced down at John as he pulled a mock sad face. "Shame," his grandson said cheerfully. "We'll just have to skip that course."

* * *

Sherlock sulked the entire way home and wouldn't speak about chess for two weeks.

"You lasted for three hours," John pointed out when his father seemed in a vaguely better mood.

"Your point?" Sherlock snapped.

"Well…if you were playing by the rules Mycroft and I have then you won six times over," John offered cheerfully.

Sherlock raised his head slowly, almost like a horror movie villain.

"Did I not mention that bit?" John asked trying to sound sincere.

"You are getting trickier every time you have a growth spurt," Sherlock muttered at him as he flopped back down on the sofa.

"Yeah," John said, packing his school bag. "No idea where I'm getting such bad habits from."

"I didn't say it was a bad thing," came the petulant response after about thirty seconds.

"I know," John said, leaning over. "Back here tonight unless you text? Mrs Hudson's out tonight with her 'gentleman caller'."

Sherlock looked up at him. "Yes," he said, searching John's face strangely. "Now go to school or you'll be late," he added, sounding mildly respectable.

"That would be tragic," John grinned, leaning down to give Sherlock a patronising pat on the head. "Bye loser," he sniggered.

Sherlock threw a cushion at his head.

* * *

Next Chapter: The dangers of sentiment - John calls Mycroft in to the school for a problem which has some unexpected consequences.


	17. Kidnapped

Kidnapped

Warning for threat of sexual assault of a minor

* * *

It hadn't been the best day in the world.

First off there had been an assembly for his year group about the theft in the PE cupboard yesterday afternoon. A few eyes had turned John's way speculatively and he'd clicked his jaw, then glared straight back.

Fuck 'em. He could break into far better things than the PE cupboard if he wanted to.

Things had dropped dramatically when Mr Hayes had told him to stay behind with the fifteen other most likely suspects. John had taken one look at the three sets of friendship groups and slumped in the chair.

They were so gonna blame him.

"Did you steal it?" Mr Hayes asked John, narrowing his eyes.

"His mum's a thief," Michael added as if to be helpful.

"She's a murderer too, think it follows?" John snapped at him.

There was a long awkward silence. It was times like these that made John wish he were more like Sherlock and could enjoy them.

"He threatened me, sir," Michael said after a moment's thought. "Did you hear that?"

Seriously? Michael really was such an irritating wanker-

John shook his head, thinking of Sherlock's raised eyebrow. No, wanker was one of those thick insults.

God, Sherlock would have a field day with Michael.

He nearly smirked at the thought.

Mr Hayes must have spotted the expression because he suddenly looked pained. "John, answer the question."

"No," John said, almost grinding his teeth together.

"All of you were seen close to the cupboard around the right time," Mr Hayes sighed. "Whoever it is needs to own up. To take responsibility for your actions is something we will take into consideration-"

"It was him, sir," Leonard hissed, pointing at a boy across from John.

And so the arguments started.

* * *

In the end Mr Hayes called in parents.

"Sir," John called as the man phoned down to the receptionist. "Could…can you call my Uncle instead?"

Mr Hayes frowned at him. "Why?"

John almost groaned. "You haven't met my Dad, have you?"

"What? Think he's scary?" Michael mocked.

John almost grinned at the thought and almost changed his mind about calling Sherlock. Despite every effort, John still couldn't lie to his dad and Sherlock would be infuriated that he'd been accused.

But maybe that was still best left as a last resort.

John had no idea what had shown on his face, but whatever it was made Mr Hayes frown even more as if there was something lurking at the edge of his memory-

"Anna Watson," Mr Hayes muttered, leaning back in surprise, "I remember now." Any other time, John would have cracked up laughing at the look on the man's face.

John waited.

"Call John's Uncle, please Sandra."

* * *

It had been a bit of an attempt to wriggle out of anyone coming, John could admit that. There was no way Mycroft was coming down to a secondary school when he was probably plotting how to annex France.

But he did.

The moment Mycroft stepped into the room, John nearly sunk to the floor in horror, trying to picture what the people Mycroft worked with had thought about him having to leave work to deal with his accused nephew.

Michael's mum had started on at Mr Hayes for calling her in and daring to call her son a thief. Leonard's mum had marched straight over to him and told him if he had stolen it then she was stealing every single piece of gaming equipment in the house.

Mycroft walked over, narrowed is gaze at John and stared.

"I didn't do it," John said, fed up with it all.

"No," Mycroft agreed, his shoulders falling a little. "You did not."

Really?

Pleased that he was being listened to, John perked up a little. Mycroft looked annoyed, but it was that look he got when he was annoyed by something other than John.

This had possibility…

"I know it's hard not to think of the children as being perfect but-" Mr Hayes began."He's hardly that," Mycroft agreed, turning to the man. "But my nephew is perfectly well equipped to conduct a much bigger theft, with a much bigger pay off. He merely chooses not to. I doubt the twenty pounds or so in the cupboard was enough of a draw, nor a padlock from Sainsbury's an interesting enough challenge. "

"Told ya," John smirked, feeling more and more at ease. Especially as there was barely a hint of shame in Mycroft's voice about John's thieving ability.

_Don't make facts into insults, _Sherlock's voice whispered at the back of his head.

Warmed at the idea that Mycroft was happy to stand up for John, John tried not to smile.

"I believe you'll find the real thief is the young man over there, trying to sink into the wall," Mycroft added. "At least if the brand new headphones, guilty look and utter silence on the subject are anything to go by."

Adam went white.

* * *

Outside, John followed Mycroft to the car.

"Why did you ask them to call me?" Mycroft asked suddenly, turning to him before they crossed the road.

John shrugged. "Sherlock would have gone mad," he said, folding his arms defensively. "You stay calm."

Mycroft nodded and started to walk to the car again. Slightly confused by the odd look on his face, John trotted after him.

"You were calm," he said, trying to work out what he had said wrong.

"No," Mycroft replied, holding the car door open for him. "I was not."

"But-"

Mycroft closed the door and stared at the school across the street. "Their linking you to the crime scene was tenuous at best. You were there because of your past," he said, his mouth firming.

Not too sure what to say, John shrugged. "It happens," he dismissed.

Mycroft snapped his gaze to John. "When?"

"I…" John squirmed at the gaze. "In primary school. With mum. Sometimes…they all knew sort of that I wasn't from a good family and that mum was a bit…" he trailed off, not sure how to word it. "Some parents wanted me gone so…" he waved his hand trying to dismiss the issue. "I change school soon after. Been to way too many new schools," he added suddenly thinking about it.

Mycroft shook his head and closed his eyes. Then, surprisingly as they were in public and still standing by the car, reached out a hand and pulled John close.

He was still no-where near as tall as his uncle, but the top of his head was almost level with Mycroft's shoulders now, which was an improvement.

"You should have been spoiled," Mycroft said quietly, his hug tight and oddly safe. "You should have been as obnoxiously pandered to as your father."

John giggled into Mycroft's shoulder. "Think the world would have collapsed if there'd been another like him," he teased.

"I mean it."

That made John feel a bit shaky. Leaning in to the hug, John shook his head. "I like my life," he said, tentatively holding onto Mycroft's coat. "I like having all of you in it, like this."

Except for Mum, he thought sadly. It would be so much better if his Mum were still part of the group that seemed to be bringing him up.

It might have been his imagination, but he was sure Mycroft squeezed just a little tighter.

* * *

It had been a good thing John had stopped them from calling Sherlock. The man had picked up a case of smuggling that he was apparently very excited about. So excited that it took him three hours to answer John's text.

From experience, that put the case at an 8 or a 9.

He'd have been livid if he'd been dragged away from it to deal with the theft issue. As it was, John was dropped off by Mycroft at his grandparents.

Grandma had bought a huge chocolate cake while his grandfather sat, typing a rather heated email to the school.

And Mycroft thought he wasn't spoiled now!

* * *

It was pretty easy to start the day assuming it would be better than the one before.

Stupid.

Grandpa had taken one look at the traffic report and told John he would be quicker walking or on the tube. It was pretty sunny and hot so John walked.

The tube stunk as it was without adding sweat to it.

Half way to school something hit the back of his head and all went black.

* * *

"Mr Holmes?"

Anthea, his new assistant sounded slightly…unsure. The only other time he had heard her sound like that had been yesterday when John's school had phoned. The woman could organise ministers with the attitude of a bored primary school teacher, but actually mention an issue with a child and she seemed to get ridiculously flustered.

"And what is the problem with my nephew today?" he asked, gathering up the papers from his last meeting.

"He hasn't turned up to school."

The urge to groan was tempting, as undignified as it would be. He hadn't got the impression from John that the boy was too upset by the matter; he displayed a more frustrated resignation to the whole incident.

Possibly, Sherlock had found out and was attempting to make a point. Though what point it could be…

Mycroft never pretended to understand the insane thought process that his brother occasionally cycled through.

Either way, Sherlock would have to be called. And, after dealing with the Minister of agriculture for two hours while the man had what could only be described as a temper tantrum, Mycroft selfishly hoped his brother and nephew were concocting some payback plan.

He did not want to be the one dragging Sherlock off of his latest case, filling him in on the school's reprehensible attitude towards John yesterday only to follow it up with the news that John had taken himself off somewhere to sulk.

* * *

"They did what?"

Of course Sherlock had no idea. It was a Tuesday. All the most annoying things happened on a Tuesday.

"The point is-"

"Why were you called?" Sherlock demanded. "I am his father, I should have been called to correct the moronic thought process-"

"John felt I would be less volatile."

Sherlock momentarily seemed to agree, and then shook the mood away. "Why did he want less volatile?"

"You mean why did he not want his father storming into the school and screaming at his teachers? I have no idea, Sherlock. It's a complete mystery."

Sherlock threw himself into the chair. "You didn't yell once?" he asked sounding bitterly disappointed in Mycroft.

"No. John was…he looked eager to leave the situation."

Sherlock made an annoyed sound as he tipped his head back.

"I miscalculated," Mycroft said, briskly trying to move on. "I assumed he wasn't that upset about the matter and he would be fine the next day-"

Sherlock had closed his eyes. "I swear that boy has a radar. Every interesting case I get I can be guaranteed to have some adolescent drama interfering in it."

Mycroft glared at him. "How inconvenient," he drawled.

"An observation," Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head back to Mycroft. "I will find him. If you would be so good as to hold off customs for three hours I may still get to solve this case."

"You wish me to hold off them making an arrest so you can solve it first?" Mycroft asked, watching his little brother stand up.

"Problem?"

"They are not my toys, Sherlock. You can't just ask me to look after them for the next few hours-"

"Oh, how hard is it to just not do an inspection? You have no sense of flair, it's why you work here, behind a desk, twiddling your thumbs and wiping up after politicians-"

"Mr Holmes."

Anthea sounded terrified.

Both of them stopped and turned to her as she stood in the doorway.

"You need to see this."

* * *

Mycroft's heart stopped as he stared at the email.

John.

His nephew was slumped in a chair; clearly unconscious and bound. A hand was holding his face to the lens and underneath the picture were the words 'Now will you negotiate?'

Unconscious.

Hit?

Panicked, Mycroft gripped the desk as Sherlock stood up, straight backed and glared down at the screen, then spun on his heel.

"You cannot collapse now," Mycroft snapped at him, trying to see anything in the picture, even as his heart thudded a manic beat in his chest.

"Collapse?"

Sherlock's tone was ice cold. Surprised, given how useless Sherlock had been years ago when John had run away, Mycroft turned.

"That time he left," Sherlock said, pulling on his coat. "This time they have taken my son."

He said nothing more as he walked out.

"Sherlock-"

The door slammed shut.

The rest of his staff stared at him with wide eyes.

Swallowing back nausea, Mycroft looked at Anthea. "Discuss the possibility of a negotiation," he instructed, trying to keep his voice even.

"You mean stall?"

Mycroft said nothing.

He didn't think anyone would respond well to him telling them to beg.

* * *

He was thirsty.

And whoever had tied him to the chair had done a shite job of it. It took John less than three minutes to wiggle free of the knots.

It looked like an abandoned room in an old factory. Dust tickled his nose and made him want to sneeze, and the scattered boards on the floor as well as the ancient looking furniture made John shiver.

The whole thing reminded him of some haunted warehouse.

Reaching into the inside pocket of his school blazer, John pulled out what looked like two old pen lids, a note from Zack about fantasy football, half a coloured-in rubber, two elastic bands, a paper clip and three sweet wrappers.

Shoving the rest back in, he folded open the paper clips and settled to the door, listening to the lock and then doubling the wire up when it proved too weak to knock the lock open. It took ages – school paper clips were crap, but he managed it in the end.

Outside, he shut the door behind him and listened carefully, trying to hear noise so he could go in the opposite direction.

Chancing it, he went to the left, trying to stick as close to the shadows as he could, edging forward slowly.

He'd been going for about a minute when he heard voices coming towards him.

Shit!

Panicking a little, he looked around frantically, not at all sure what to do. Taking a chance, he darted down a hall, looking for an open door to slip into-

He fought like a demon when someone came up behind him and clamped a hand over his mouth, hauling him backwards and into a room.

No, no, he had to get free, escape, get home-

"Shush," his father snapped at him, pulling them both against the wall. "Be quiet."

Dad.

John nearly went weak with relief against his father's chest. Sherlock kept his hand over John's mouth as the other reached into his pocket and pulled out-

A gun?

John's eyes widened in horror.

Who the hell had thought that would be a good idea? His Dad could make a bomb out of cough mixture, let alone something like-

A noise made John shrink back into him and, behind him, he could feel Sherlock rest his chin on John's hair as he clicked the safety off.

Waiting.

Terrified, John tried to calm his breathing and stared at the door.

Nothing.

"You shut the door behind you?" Sherlock asked under his breath.

John nodded.

Sherlock made an odd humming noise, as if weighing something up. "At least you had the decency to be kidnapped by dreadfully disorganised criminals."

If he were a real Holmes, John was almost sure he could have quipped back when Sherlock tentatively lowered his hand from John's mouth. As it was, the only thing John could think to do was turn and bury his head into his father's neck.

A calming hand soothed through his hair for a second or two before Sherlock gently pushed him back. "Hold my hand and do not let go. Do not make noise and if I tell you to do something, you do it. Understood?"

John nodded, squeezing his Dad's hand as tight as he possibly could.

To his amazement, Sherlock seemed to draw in a nervous breath before undoing the door, gun in hand as he pulled John along with him.

Sherlock barely hesitated, pulling John along quietly through the cluttered hallways with the abandoned planks of wood and crumbling walls. Old bits off machinery were all over the place.

John was careful to follow Sherlock's feet exactly, trying to avoid tripping on anything despite their fast pace. The last thing they needed was to make an almighty noise and draw the kidnappers closer.

Who were they?

John desperately wanted to ask. To talk to Sherlock, to stop and lean in close just to know he was there, but it was a stupid thought. Hardly the right time for any of that.

Suddenly Sherlock yanked on his hand and pulled him into an alcove, hidden in the shadows, though anyone who looked properly would see them. Sherlock shoved John behind him and suddenly, all John could see was Sherlock's back.

Wait…

No, because Sherlock might get hurt if they spotted-

"Move and you'll get us both killed," Sherlock hissed at him. "Not a muscle, John."

Mollified, John shrunk back and froze, pressing his lips together to keep his breath as quiet as possible.

And then Sherlock tensed.

He couldn't see what was happening or how much danger they were in. All he could do was wait, blind.

John despised it. It made the fear creep up on his back and worm into his gut. He didn't dare move and it felt useless, pathetic to just wait.

Then they were moving again, Sherlock grip around John's wrist was like iron as he practically pulled John along and through the old factory until they got to a room and shut the door, putting the latch on. He tugged at the door as if checking it was securely locked.

For a moment, when he turned to John, Sherlock looked as if he might say something, as if-

But he swept past and jimmied open the window, leaning out to check before shimmying through and outside. Then he turned and gestured to John.

Wriggling out of windows was something John could quite happily claim to be an expert at and he made it through easily. Once out, Sherlock grabbed his wrist again and pulled him along, towards the alley way and then through a path. The fence on the side was rotting and collapsing under the weight of trees and bushes against it.

Tired, John started to drag a little, pulling against the grip that held him so tight he wouldn't be surprised to see bruises already.

"Keep up," Sherlock hissed at him, tugging. At some point he must have hidden the gun in his coat again as John couldn't see it anywhere.

"We aren't being followed-"

"Keep it that way," came the clipped response.

* * *

It was only when they made it to Wandsworth Park that John realised where he might have been and, from the school kids playing, how long he had been out.

Sherlock dropped his wrist as if he'd been electrocuted and stood like a statue, head bowed down and arms at his side, almost shaking

Not at all sure what to make of the strange behaviour, John looked around.

"D…Sherlock?"

His father shook his head, though John had no idea what at.

"We need to go," Sherlock declared suddenly, reaching out to grab John by his elbow..

* * *

"Sir?" Anthea said looking up. "Your brother is here-"

The announcement was barely needed. Sherlock strode in, deposited an exhausted, tired-looking John and then turned on his heel and walked back out.

All in under thirty seconds.

John.

Alive.

Safe.

Surging forward, Mycroft reached out for the boy and pulled him in. His nephew seemed so tired that he leaned against Mycroft, burying his head into Mycroft's shoulder.

Cupping the blond hair, Mycroft allowed the boy to lean on him.

"Are you hurt?" he murmured to John, not caring one jot that his staff were probably staring. He barely hugged his mother when she occasionally popped by-

Mycroft froze as the picture of yesterday jumped into his mind.

Him and John, at the car.

Mycroft squeezed the boy tighter, suddenly remembering that he had asked the child a question.

"John?"

John shook his head and pulled back slightly. "Something's wrong with Dad."

Mycroft pulled John back to his shoulder, staring at the door his brother had vanished through.

Of course something was wrong with Sherlock; his son had just been kidnapped. His brother was either hyperventilating over a sink or marching off to expel his temper on a room somewhere.

Inspecting the dirty hair by his nose, Mycroft ran gentle fingers along John's skull until he found a patch of blood.

Pulling back he lifted John's chin and studied his eyes.

Concussion. A slight one.

A bruise was forming around his wrist…Sherlock had done it, Mycroft thought with a sigh. His brother, terrified, must have almost dragged John out of the building and back to safety.

It wasn't good, Mycroft thought as he caught Anthea's eye to get some water for John, but it wasn't the worst thing that could have happened.

* * *

"Did you know there was a fire in Lambeth today?" Mycroft asked as he sipped his brandy. "Five men died, trapped inside an old shoe factory."

He didn't look at Sherlock.

"Tragic," Sherlock said, stepping closer. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs. The doctor took a look at him. He has a mild concussion."

Sherlock nodded. "Asleep?"

"Yes."

His brother couldn't seem to stay still.

"He was unharmed Sherlock, apart from the blow to the head. Do you not think that was a slight over-reaction-"

His brother shook his head viciously.

"Sherlock-"

"I heard them," Sherlock breathed, sounding like death suddenly. "Handsome boy."

Mycroft froze. "Sherlock, he hadn't been-"

"He was unconscious," Sherlock braced his hands upon the mantelpiece over the empty fireplace.

"One comment does not mean-"

Sherlock turned his head and looked at Mycroft. "Do you honestly believe that I wouldn't know from that what they were planning on doing? I can deduce your little minions in seconds and they're meant to be trained professionals."

"They didn't," was all Mycroft could say. "They didn't get the chance to do anything to him."

Sherlock stayed utterly still. "And they never will," he said tightly.

* * *

Sherlock sat, watching his son sleep.

He'd dragged a chair over to John's bed and stared, fixated on the rise and fall of John's breathing.

_Handsome boy ain't he? Half hope Holmes pisses around with negotiations._

He didn't know what to do. John was too old now for Sherlock to climb into bed with, curl around and hold. Too old for that but far, far too young for what that bastard had wanted to do.

A child.

How could anyone want-

He shook the thought away. This teenager in-between stage was hellish, Sherlock decided.

"Dad?"

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock ordered, keeping his hands on the arm of the chair.

To his amazement, John sat up and wriggled forward, almost throwing himself into Sherlock's arms.

Not so old then.

Relieved, Sherlock pulled him in tight, his son practically on his lap and buried his face in John's hair.

It could have been so much worse today. And he had been complaining about being dragged off a case-

"They were shit at knots," John mumbled into his shoulder.

"Were they?" Sherlock asked quietly, running a hand over his son's hair and pressing a kiss to the forehead, keeping his touch light in case he added pressure to the bump on John's head from the blow earlier.

The image of his son, unconscious and with those men…unprotected…

He made sure to keep his grip light and hide the impotent fury that raced around within him.

"Got free easy," John boasted.

Any other time Sherlock might have been joining in with the boast, delighted that his boy had escaped his bonds but all he could think about was the 'what if's'.

"And the door?" he forced himself to ask.

"Paper clip in my blazer," John replied. "Had to double it over to pop the lock."

"I assume you won't complain about having to wear one again," Sherlock pointed out.

John shook his head. "You'd have found me," he said confidently. "Would have been quicker if you'd let me have a proper lock picking kit though!"

Perhaps.

His son seemed oblivious now to the danger he had been in. How strange that the memory of his fear could fade so quickly for John and yet still haunt Sherlock. Nothing could describe the horror Sherlock had felt at having tracked down his son only to almost fail at the last moment. Endless locked doors and no-way of knowing which one held his son. The only option to find the captors and follow them, hoping that there wouldn't be too many with John.

But he nodded, reluctant to let John see just how terrified he had been.

"Who were they?" John asked, shifting into a more comfortable position but showing no urge to leave the hug.

"Hired hands," Sherlock said quietly. "An organisation Mycroft is dealing with wanted leverage. Apparently they let it be known that they would offer any reward to someone who could find such an advantage."

"So they kidnapped me?" John asked doubtfully.

The look of sheer horror on Mycroft's face when they had seen that picture would stay with Sherlock for the rest of his life. "No surer way to control Mycroft," Sherlock said, laying his cheek on top of John's head.

Or him.

If anyone ever wanted revenge…

He'd known for years that John was protected because of his job, because of Mycroft and Anna and Lestrade, in his own way. How odd that the flip side had never occurred to him.

No. He simply hadn't wanted to dwell on it.

"Apart from kidnapping the umbrella," John muttered, yawning.

"We have had this conversation," Sherlock said carefully. "You mean more to him than the umbrella, John."

It was a foolish sentence, but nonetheless, John fidgeted as if uncomfortable with the idea.

"And you are more important than cases," Sherlock added, staring at the window.

"I know."

Sherlock smiled, relieved that at least one lesson had gotten through to his son. "I do however resent this ridiculous ability you have to find trouble during an interesting case."

"Testing you," John said snuggling in. "Think of it as a yearly review."

"Ah." Brat.

There was a long silence, then John adjusted his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "You were scared today," he said, as if edging over broken glass.

"You had been kidnapped, John. You may have managed to make it out without issue but the fact remains-"

John lifted his head and glared.

Sherlock hesitated, unsure.

"They…I overheard their plans. Musings, if you will. It concerned me."

"Were they…" John pulled back, rearranging his duvet to cover his shoulders. "Were they gonna like…chop off my fingers and send it to Mycroft?"

"They weren't Bond villains," Sherlock sighed. "I swear, those films have warped your mind-"

"Dad."

It appeared his son wasn't going to let it go.

"They're dead," Sherlock said tightly. "That is all you need to know."

John blinked and stared.

"Fire," Sherlock elaborated. "Accident."

But John gazed at him, eyes narrowing and Sherlock waited.

Then John leaned in close again and snuggled in. "It won't happen again then?" he asked in a young voice.

Never.

Sherlock shook his head fiercely. "I believe it has been made clear what the consequences may be should anyone think to go after you again. Besides, you were hardly an easy captive to hold onto," he added trying to quieten the fear that lurked within and focus instead on his son's triumph. "You might have made it out all on your own."

Unlikely, but not impossible. His son had done more surprising things in his life.

John curled up even closer and, despite the fact he was twelve years old, Sherlock found himself almost rocking the boy to sleep and holding him through the nightmares that followed.

* * *

"Dead?"

JJ nodded. "He locked them in. Stood and watched and didn't move a muscle until the damned factory started to crumble."

Creepy bastard. Though JJ guessed it was to be expected with what Holmes had overheard about Anna's boy.

There was a rather aggrieved noise over the phone line. "How boring. And annoying. Is Watson showing any sign of ending her silence?"

The voice on the other end didn't sound angry about the events of the day. More…curious. Testing.

That, from him, was far more worrying.

"She knows what will happen if she does," JJ replied, a nagging guilt still tugging at him.

After all, he'd arranged for her to meet the psychopath.

"And the boy?"

"Never saw me. Hasn't said a thing. Don't think he knows what he knows."

"You had better hope so," came the reply. "I'm looking for a new rug; don't tempt me to make one out of you my dear."

The phone line went dead and JJ swallowed, wishing to God he had never got involved with Jim Moriarty.


	18. Coddled

Coddled

The entire Holmes family is driving John mad!

Warning for child abuse and uncomfortable manipulation.

* * *

Thanks to NicolettelliW for beating :)

The first day back at school started a bit odd.

Well…thinking about it, the whole week had been odd, mainly because Sherlock had refused to let John go to school. Which, if he was honest, John had raised little more than a token protest, then settled down to play Call of Duty for the next few days.

When his uncle had turned up, John had cast a rueful look at his school uniform and prepared to put it on, only to be told that one more day would be fine.

Which was just plain creepy from Mycroft, king of rules.

The final straw had been his grandparents. Mycroft or Sherlock must have suddenly explained the whole kidnapping business to them because the pair came over carrying chocolate, games and a new set of trainers. On its own that would have been awesome but then they stayed.

For a long time.

Until Sherlock started to get twitchy and then lit up in the front room, glaring at the pair as they stared pointedly at the smoke.

"You could just go out," John had muttered.

The look he had received suggested that John may have just taken the title of thickest person of the year from Anderson.

Okay, so being kidnapped hadn't been the most fun thing to do in the world but nothing had happened. He'd been hit over the head and then tied to a chair. Everyone was acting as if he'd been tortured and his Dad had…

Uncomfortable with the thought of exactly what Sherlock had said about the sudden death of the kidnappers, John shifted feeling suddenly claustrophobic. Unable to bear another day like it, John had announced that he was going to school the next day.

* * *

The first clue should have been that Sherlock left at the same time John did.

Then got on the same bus.

Then got off at the same stop.

Feeling a dawning horror, John glared at a spot on the pavement. "You are not walking me to school," he muttered.

"No. I am walking with you to school," Sherlock replied, eyeing up anyone who came too close. "The intentions behind it are very different."

John turned to stand in front of him, stopping the man from walking any further. "No."

"What do you mean 'no'?" Sherlock demanded. "Nothing that I just said required a yes or no answer-"

"You are not walking with me to school," John specified. "Not next to me, in front of me or behind me. This," he gestured, "is as far as we go."

Sherlock stared at him. "No."

"Well I'm not moving," John said, folding his arms.

"It was your decision to go to school," Sherlock said, sounding unbothered. "It hardly changes my plans if we have to stand here all day. I was resigned to a tedious morning anyway."

John sighed before horror struck.

"You are not following me into school," he hissed desperately.

"Apparently not," Sherlock nodded.

"They won't let you," John said quickly, trying to dissuade the git.

"Let me?" Sherlock dug his phone out of his pocket. "If you can't deter me, what makes you think your dull teachers will be able to."

John glanced down the road, towards the school and then slumped his shoulders. "Home it is," he said, defeated.

* * *

Mycroft interfered that day.

"The compromise," his Uncle said sincerely, "Is that you allow your father to walk you to reception."

"You are kidding," John complained, trying to smother himself with his pillow as he lay on the bed.

The pillow was yanked off of his head. "Or, you can resign yourself to staying in this flat until your father turns homicidal from boredom."

Tempting.

* * *

It was a relief to be back at school. Even the dreaded English class with its 'no wrong answers but here's a low mark for you' was good because it involved twenty eight other people his own age and a different set of walls.

"John Watson?"

John looked up at the teacher and then down at his rather sparse work.

There was some possibility that Mycroft would get him out of a detention if that was what-

"Your Uncle says you have an appointment. Pack up your things and walk down to reception."

Appointment?

If it was another session with the therapist then John was going to scream. They'd just about managed to get the meetings with her down to once every two months.

With great reluctance, John packed up his things and sulked down to reception where his Uncle was waiting.

Unusually, the man strode over, placed his hands on John's shoulders and stared at him intently.

"You have not dragged me out of class to check on me…right?" John pleaded as a wave of frustration hit.

Mycroft's gaze skittered away. "You cannot blame us for being concerned."

"Yes I can," John complained, backing away. "Sherlock's meant to be the nutter about this. Not you. You're meant to come and tell him off for practically holding me hostage in the flat for four days."

"You were kidnapped," Mycroft hissed suddenly. "You were kidnapped because of me. Do not think for a second I will apologise for ensuring your safety."

John stared up at Mycroft as the man turned and nodded to the receptionist. "Thank you Jill," Mycroft said before opening the door. "Shall we?" he asked John.

Feeling lost, John followed meekly.

"Why was it your fault?" he asked quietly as they approached the car.

"I allowed someone to see that I cared for you," Mycroft replied woodenly as he pulled open the door, his eyes sweeping the school's driveway.

"So?"

Mycroft's attention snapped back to John, his mouth firming. "Get in the car."

"But-"

"Now."

The tone made John duck into the car and settle in, moving as far over as he could to glare out of the opposite window.

* * *

They sat in silence as the car drove away. An uncomfortable silence which John had no intention of ending.

The streets they drove down were as familiar as the back of John's hand as they approached home.

"It's not fair," John muttered to the window. "It's not my fault people grabbed me."

"No, it isn't," Mycroft agreed. "But life is not fair."

Life isn't fair? That was the argument Mycroft wanted to use?

John shifted closer to the window and refused to say another word until the car pulled up at Baker Street.

There, on the steps as if he were a baby that had to be handed over, was his father. The man who had once said that he wouldn't 'parent' him now seemed to think John incapable of getting out of the car and walking into the flat.

And right next to him was the man who had once said John was ordinary in a dismissive tone.

Life wasn't fair? That was all Mycroft could say? John had tried to be fair, to both of them and they couldn't even try-.

"Fuck you," he snarled at Mycroft before launching himself out of the car. "And you too," he added at his father as Sherlock looked up from his phone, startled.

John marched to the door, pushed it open and slammed it shut behind him.

Which would have been fine except for the fact Mrs Hudson was standing in her kitchen doorway, slowly folding her arms as she glared at him.

Shit.

* * *

"That's no way to treat your uncle and father. You know better than that," Mrs Hudson said with a frown.

John sighed into his cup of tea. Mrs Hudson had beckoned him in and then shut her kitchen door pointedly. "They're driving me mad," he complained. "Nothing happened. Like Sherlock said, they were the most rubbish kidnappers ever."

"They're scared," she sighed, sitting opposite him.

That seemed bloody unlikely, John thought shooting her a doubtful look.

She looked straight back at him, her expression serious.

"I can look after myself," John said awkwardly, trying to shrug it away.

"I imagine that scares them more, dear," Mrs Hudson said with a gentle smile.

John put his cup down. "I get Dad," he said slowly. "Him and emotions…you sort of have to squint with him sometimes to see the thought process. But Mycroft…" John shook his head. "Why the hell is he driving me around and checking up on me?"

Mrs Hudson smiled at him slowly. "You stupid boy," she said in that deceptive tone. "You really are Sherlock's son when it comes to emotions, aren't you?"

Sure that she'd gravely insulted him, John blinked, baffled. "What?" he asked as she stood up.

"Your Uncle couldn't love you more if he'd fathered you himself," she said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "And he knows that if anything happens to you then Sherlock won't be the same, that he'll lose what he's gained with him too. You, my dear child, keep that entire family together. "

John blinked at the wall, noticing for the first time that the pattern didn't quite match up on her tiles. "But…that's rubbish," he said turning to look over the chair to catch her eye. "They're fine now."

"For now," Mrs Hudson said. "For you."

Oh.

Oh!

Stunned, John slumped back in his seat, not at all sure how to process that.

"Lemon drizzle cake?" Mrs Hudson asked. "I've always found it helps me think things through."

John nodded, completely forgetting that he hated lemon.

* * *

"Does Mycroft...care about me that much?" John asked Sherlock that night.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The lack of observation must be from your mother's side. Really, do put in more effort to override her genes with mine."

"Does he love me? Like…not because he has to?"

Sherlock paused and turned to him. "My God, you really can be an idiot," he murmured looking slightly stunned. "If the man could, he'd steal you away from me in a heartbeat. Has done," he added darkly.

"Yeah but…" John thought of that awful summer last year. "He hated having me there."

"Mycroft subscribes to the belief that as an abused child, he will abuse. Typically because every idiot with the memory span of a goldfish compares how much like our grandfather he is. As if job and intelligence are indicators of how much you will enjoy beating a child with a cane because he had had the audacity to be shy at a party."

John stared at him in horror and slowly Sherlock seemed to become aware of the words that had just erupted from his mouth.

"Which he obviously would prefer you didn't bring up the next time you see him," Sherlock added, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

John stared at his fingers, suddenly unsure. Mycroft always seemed so in control, so calm. It was strange to think of him having thoughts like that and worries about things he shouldn't be worried about. John couldn't imagine anyone less likely to hurt him. He was in more danger with Sherlock's 'experiments' than he was with Mycroft. "I told him to fuck off," John said quietly.

"So he said," Sherlock looked back down at the photographs he'd been studying. "I had a lecture about your vocabulary choice."

"Is he mad?"

Sherlock frowned. "You said it to me too," he added, looking up. "I was an add on in fact. That's even more insulting."

John grinned, edging forward. "Yeah, but I can say anything to you. You're my Dad."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "That won't work often," he warned, even as a smile hinted across his face.

"Does…does Mycroft love me as much as you do?"

"Doubtful," Sherlock replied, looking back down again. "You are not his flatmate in addition to being his family member."

"Flatmate?"

"Friend," Sherlock corrected himself. He sat at the table, where sheets of paper and pictures were spread across, glaring at the glossy photos of, if John had to guess, someone's guts. "Go away and apologise to him if you must and stop annoying me

"You'll let me go out?" John asked doubtfully. "It's evening."

"It's light," Sherlock countered. "And you are more than capable of crossing the road to where he is sulking in his car."

"You're gonna look out the window, aren't you?" John sighed.

"I have important things to do," Sherlock muttered. "Go away."

* * *

John climbed back in the car and gaped.

There was a woman. A woman that, from a glance at her face, John knew he had seen in passing before but never quite this close….

She was all legs (and they were really pretty legs as well) and she had a phone in her hands which she was typing very fast on (like, faster than he'd ever seen) and she had lips and a neck and breasts-

"Anthea? Privacy?"

John turned beat red and stared at the floor of the car, trying not to look up as the woman slid along the seat.

She was wearing a skirt which might ride up and show more of those really good legs-

Oh god, Mycroft probably knew. Was probably trying not to laugh-

"Are you coming down with a fever?" Mycroft asked as Anthea shut the door behind her.

"What? No," John yelped. "I just…I came to say sorry. For swearing at you. After you gave me a lift."

Mycroft nodded. "Is that all?" he asked in a rather cool tone.

John stared at the seat, unsure.

It was easy with Sherlock. There was no-one else he'd rather live with, rather have to talk to or help him. It felt suddenly strange to wonder if Mycroft felt second best and doubly odd because it was true.

John wasn't exactly sure how to make it better without lying to him.

"Thank you for coming to the school. That day when…the whole thief thing."

"You've thanked me for that."

Bloody hell Mycroft could make things difficult. "I know. I just…thank you for sticking up for me."

Mycroft shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I find myself repeating what I said to your father years ago when I found you after you ran away. A thank you for that is insulting."

"You didn't have to-"

"Yes I did." Mycroft replied in a firm tone. Then seemed to give up on what he was doing and place it on the seat opposite. "Exactly when did I give you the impression that I didn't care?"

"I know you care-" John started to protest.

"That I didn't love you."

John winced and stared at his shoes as he shrugged.

"John-"

"Because you're you and successful and everyone respects you and knows you do the right thing. And I'm the next generation and I'm….the son of a thief and a murderer, a pickpocket and common as shit. Why would you of all people be proud of that?"

Mycroft went ice white.

"You don't think I'm proud of you?" Mycroft asked, sounding a little hoarse.

John stared resolutely at the carpet of the car and shrugged.

"John?"

"I can't even….I can't even get my English homework right. And you had a call to your office that I was being talked at by the deputy head about a theft-"

"You were innocent," Mycroft said firmly.

"Next time I might not be," John said with a shrug. "Hardly as if I haven't done it before." John shook his head. "I…I just feel like after you and Dad…I'm kinda a step down."

A hand cupped his chin and tilted his head up.

"You are the furthest possible thing from a step down," Mycroft said quietly. "Do you understand me?"

John blinked and frowned. "But…" he tensed his jaw as he thought. "I'm not clever like you two, I can't see those things. I'm not even top of my classes at school like you and Dad were, and even Mum used to be. I'm…" he ducked his gaze down to Mycroft's tie. "Ordinary."

"Ah," Mycroft said softly after a moment. "You appear to be repeating the word of a foolish man, years ago who, as your father pointed out at the time, was not looking properly."

"I am though," John said, not looking away from the tie. "There's nothing special about me."

"What twelve year old can get free from paid kidnappers?" Mycroft asked after a moment. "I can assure you that, despite what your father may choose to believe, he couldn't have done it at that age. You have a skill set, John, that when you are older will make you a force to be reckoned with. But, more importantly than that, you are one of the strongest people I have ever met."

Baffled, John glanced down at his still pretty skinny arms.

"Emotionally," Mycroft said with an almost amused sigh. "Whereas your father and I…it is our downfall and your strength."

John churned that over in his head for a moment. "How is-"

Mycroft shook his head. "Is there anything else?" he asked, letting go of John's chin. "While we are here, talking things out?"

John watched him. "I…okay, well if that's all true-"

There was an annoyed sigh. "And it is."

"-then aren't you mad at me?" John asked, wanting suddenly to hug his knees to his chest. "I mean…you do more for me than anyone else and I still…Sherlock's my…"

"Your father," Mycroft finished and frowned, the silence suddenly heavy as John watched Mycroft think until, finally, Mycroft let out a breath.

"It has never been a chore to care for you, John. Unexpected and somehow managed without effort or conscious thought, but never a chore."

John felt his vision blur a little. "But then-"

"He is your father," Mycroft soothed. "And the relationship the pair of you have…I ache to look at it sometimes, John, but it's not always your father I am jealous of."

Startled by that, John looked up.

"My little brother and my nephew," Mycroft said, reaching out to wipe John's cheek. "You have no idea what you have done for Sherlock. How you have helped him, added richness and joy to his life. If I didn't love you for you, I would love you for that."

John pressed his lips together, trying not to sniffle or do something really pathetic.

Mycroft wrapped an arm around John, pulling him close. "You cannot comprehend how terrified we were," he whispered. "And I will always say I was far more fearful than Sherlock. He had only one thing to lose. I had two."

John snuggled into him. "You wouldn't," he whispered. "He does care for you."

"I know," Mycroft said, stroking John's hair. "But you are his life now. I have no doubt Sherlock would burn down half the world if it meant keeping you from harm."

"The stupid side," John muttered after a moment.

"True," Mycroft agreed. "But to Sherlock Holmes, most of the world is stupid. I fear the distinction wouldn't help matters."

John smiled as he pulled back. "Can I go to school tomorrow?" he asked warily.

"Yes, but I will be escorting you home," Mycroft said looking a little unsettled still.

That might not be so bad. Maybe, if Mycroft's assistant was with them-

John cut off the thought before it gave him away. Suddenly eager to vanish before Mycroft figured it out, he reached for the door.

Then replayed the conversation in his head.

"You know I…you know…as well as Sherlock…" John fumbled at the idea of saying 'love' to someone who was not a fit girl. It was as if somehow the kids at school would know he'd been sappy the moment they saw him. "I'm kinda proud of you too."

Mycroft nodded. "Go home," he said gently. "Before your father thinks I'm kidnapping you. He's terribly paranoid at the moment."

* * *

Sherlock rolled his eyes the moment he saw John. "Legs?" he muttered, shaking his head. "They aren't even biologically useful for the breeding process."

John went so red he swore he could have fried an egg on his cheek. "How the hell did you know that?" he demanded.

Sherlock lifted his phone. "Mycroft would like to add that she will not be picking you up tomorrow."

John flopped on the sofa, groaning.

They would never let this go.

* * *

"You left him alone at the flat?"

"I have been told I am smothering the boy to death and he is far too much my son to take to that kindly," Sherlock replied, lighting up. "And Mrs Hudson is downstairs with strict orders to keep an eye on him, discreetly."

"Smoking again?"

Sherlock took a deep, enjoyable drag. "I find it calms me at the moment. If I get too annoyed by the memory I can remember them burning in that disgusting factory." He blew the smoke out. "It settles me somewhat."

"How long has John thought I am embarrassed by him?" Mycroft demanded, standing to walk over to the drinks cabinet.

"As I recall, you weren't too concerned about hiding that during your first meeting with the boy-"

The tumbler slammed onto the table. "You knew then?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head, easing a little. "I started to wonder recently. I thought I was mistaken when he called you in to the school though."

"I could have explained-"

Sherlock sighed. "John needs proof, not words. He was starting to see how erroneous his assumption was. It took him almost a year to feel confident enough to call me Dad, despite my reassurance that it was the case."

"He thinks I want to be his father," Mycroft said stonily, picking up the glass and knocking it back. "Any idea where he got that erroneous thought from?"

"Ah," Sherlock sighed. "Must we…fine. I told him that you did not want to be his father because you fear being an abusive parent, thus your true claim that you do not want to be his father because you do not want to risk harming him-"

"Wrong," Mycroft snapped. "If he were my son then he wouldn't be yours."

Sherlock froze mid inhalation of the cigarette and let the smoke blow out rather than in.

"If he were my son, you wouldn't be here, talking to me."

Sherlock lowered the cigarette, not at all sure what to say.

"I would appreciate it if you informed John you were incorrect," Mycroft continued. "Good night, Sherlock."

And with that he walked out of the room leaving Sherlock to stare at the empty whiskey glass, stunned.

* * *

Bully - An incident at school awakens a deep issue for Sherlock and Mycroft.


	19. Bully

Bully

Warning: This chapter does contain child abuse - physical and emotional.

Thanks to NicolettelliW for editing :)

* * *

From the way John flew up both sets of stairs and slammed his door closed, Sherlock could deduce that the boy was in the middle of some ridiculous drama.

Like father, like son apparently, he thought as he glared at the drugs raid Lestrade was currently conducting.

Sherlock stared up the stairs, debating with himself.

"He's probably just annoyed that the flat's being raided," Lestrade chimed in unhelpfully. "Maybe this will be a lesson next time to not be seen talking to a dealer by the lead witness for the defence."

"It does beg the question how she knew he was a dealer," Sherlock muttered, still looking up the stairs. "And my son is not prone to embarrassment. I believe I made him practically immune to that years ago. I only manage it now if I try hard."

Lestrade stared at him. "How the hell is that kid so well adjusted?"

* * *

When Sherlock opened the door (watching the drugs squad examine his fridge had lost interest after the third horrified gasp), his son was sprawled on his bed. John's face was buried in his pillow, his body curled up towards the wall and his hands were under the pillow, bunching it into his face.

It was an incredibly melodramatic position. More fitting for himself than his son.

It was also highly suspicious.

John didn't wallow. If there was something truly wrong he would pretend there was nothing the matter, and if it were anything less he would be pacing, trying to work out how to ask a question. The fact that it was neither and that the position hid his hands was rather telling.

Crouching, Sherlock tugged one of John's hands out from the pillow and frowned at the bloodied knuckles.

"You really thought you could keep fighting from me?" he asked, almost disappointed.

And, when he thought about it, rather insulted.

John groaned. "No. Just…don't over-react."

The vague warning was enough to make alarm bells ring as his son lifted his face-

His bruised and bloody face.

Startled, Sherlock reached out for his son's chin, ready to grip it hard and yank it up. At the last second he turned his hand, seeing the look in John's eyes and used the tips of his fingers to gently lift John's chin.

Fists. Roughly the same size as John's; a school yard thing then. His cheek was bruised, his lip bleeding and there were gravel marks along his jaw line where he'd scraped the tarmac.

His son had been in a fight and he'd been outnumbered.

"How many?"

"Six," John sighed, easing himself up. Sherlock's temper sky rocketed when he saw the ginger movements that indicated he hadn't just taken a beating to his face.

His school shirt was stained with blood and dirt from the fists of those that had hit him. Torn ever so slightly . When it was removed Sherlock frowned at the state of his son's back and chest. At some point his son had been against a wall and the bruises forming looked deep and painful-

"I couldn't just walk away," John said quietly, wincing as Sherlock studied the bruises, trying to work out if he should take his child to a doctor.

"When you are this outnumbered you walk them to me," Sherlock snapped. "You have done it before-"

"They were picking on Barney Adderson," John clicked his jaw.

"Who?" Sherlock was relatively sure that name had never come up before.

"He's…this kid in year seven," John sighed. "His parents… he goes to school with a teddy bear lunch box still and loving notes with a peeled box of fruit. It's like his parents are asking for him to get beaten up."

Sherlock stared at his son. His twelve year old son that had broken up a gang of bullies and offered himself up instead.

There was an odd moment where he felt like he had been split into four different people. One who raged at the idea his son had been hurt, another who wanted to burst with pride that his son and only his son hadn't walked away but had walked over, helped. The third was despairing at the idiot that was his son who had forgotten he didn't have to single handedly battle the evils of the world. The last… the last…

Shame.

He pushed away from that one as quickly as he could.

His past did not need to affect John.

"You're lucky," he said, sitting back on his heels. "Just bruising and cuts. It could have been far worse."

John nodded. "Didn't feel like they'd done much damage."

Yet another thing he hated.

Twelve year olds were not meant to know the difference between a bruise and bruised bones.

* * *

The headmaster called him in the next morning. Leaving John with Mrs Hudson, Sherlock strode into the office, ready for a fight himself.

"Mr Holmes, while I realise you still have very little confidence in the abilities of those around you, it does not take a genius to realise that these boys have been exceedingly stupid in all blaming John for beating them up after school yesterday."

Disappointing.

Sitting down and glaring at the man that had once been his old maths teacher, Sherlock shook his head. "One does wonder about the quality of this school if students cannot work out accusing one boy of beating up six of them is tantamount to admitting they were ganging up on one student."

Mr Rogers nodded in agreement. "Logic was never their strong suit…." He frowned. "I have, however only had four phone calls. There were two more?"

"Bullying a Barney Adderson," Sherlock added, sprawling out in the chair.

"Ah," Mr Rogers sighed. "Yes…that was to be my next appointment. I was unaware the two were linked. Barney has apparently refused to say anything about who hit him yesterday. Am I to take it that both John and Barney were approached?"

"No. My idiotic son saw what was happening and offered himself up as the sacrificial lamb."

Mr Rogers blinked. "Oh," he said looking baffled. "Well…"

"You're still going to suspend him for fighting though, correct?" Sherlock muttered, staring at the desk.

"How long would you keep him off school?"

"Three school days."

Mr Rogers nodded. "I cannot condone fighting, half of the students will not grasp why one is accepted and the other isn't. Three days will be a long enough suspension. "

"And the other boys?"

Mr Rogers sighed. "Exclusion, seclusion, on report and the warning that if it ever happens again they will be facing expulsion."

Sherlock leaned forward. "If it ever happens again then expulsion will be the least of their worries."

* * *

"I don't get it," John said quietly that night.

"Get it?" Sherlock asked as he composed. "Are we discussing the ability to engage brain and not fall face first into the fists of six other boys?"

When he glanced over, John was glaring at him. "No," the boy said sullenly. "I don't get…why bother? I mean Barney's…" he seemed to be searching for a positive word for the boy.

"Useless?" Sherlock asked. "A liability? Boring?"

John clicked his tongue. "A bit…pathetic. I just don't get…it's not like they win anything from it. He'd cry over anything. What's the point?"

"People like to have power," Sherlock replied, studying his notes as something uncomfortable started to bubble within.

"Power is not doing something when you could," John said.

The statement was so…unexpected that Sherlock glanced back over at his son.

"I could've nicked anything from the school and set up those tossers that tried to blame me. I didn't…I could but I didn't. I like knowing that. Doing it would feel as if I had to, to prove a point. Then I'd just be doing something because of them."

It was a bizarre way of looking at the world.

"But then they'd never know," Sherlock pointed out.

"Then they don't matter," John said with a shrug. "Isn't that what you've been saying? If people are too thick to work it out then that's their problem." He frowned at Sherlock. "You think I'm mental," he decided.

"For far more obvious reasons than what you have just said," Sherlock replied slowly. "It's…an unusual view."

"Were you ever bullied at school?"

No.

Some had tried. They'd quickly learned that Sherlock knew exactly how to goad them and could time it almost pitch perfect to the moment a teacher's eye swept over to them. Sherlock had once experimented to see if he could get his contemporaries in detention in alphabetical order.

He shook his head.

"Was Mycroft?" John asked quietly.

Yes.

Sherlock looked away. "That is a conversation you should have with your uncle," he said, studying his composition again.

He doubted John would ever bring it up with Mycroft.

Thankfully.

* * *

"You must be proud."

His father. His parents had come to visit John and his mother was currently fawning over the boy upstairs.

"I am not in the mood tonight," Sherlock snapped, staring at the fireplace as he sat in his chair.

"For me congratulating you?" his father asked sounding confused. "You're usually in the mood for praise."

Sherlock took a sip of brandy to avoid saying anything.

"Only you could be angry with John for stepping in to stop a bully," his father snapped.

"I am not angry with him, I am annoyed with you," Sherlock corrected. "Leave."

His father threw up his hands in disgust and walked away.

* * *

"_So, six years old," his grandfather soothed as Sherlock coloured in his pirate's sword. "How have you found it so far?"_

_Sherlock considered the question. "It's not that much different than being five," he said with some disappointment. "Mummy won't even let me stay up later. Not even five minutes later," he added, still annoyed by it._

_He hated being sent up to bed while everyone continued to do things down stairs. _

_He hated missing out._

"_Ah," his Grandfather smiled. "Well, I think you're old enough to help me with something."_

_Interesting. Sherlock looked up from his colouring. "What?" he demanded._

_His grandfather smiled._

* * *

"What did you say to Grandpa?" John asked as the front door downstairs closed with rather more force than was necessary.

"Nothing."

John raised an eyebrow and sat in the chair opposite, his cheek looking like a paint palate. "Nothing?" he asked looking so unimpressed with the answer that for a moment the expression was remarkably similar to one that Sherlock often saw in the mirror. "He hasn't looked that pissed off with you in ages."

"Then perhaps he was merely due," Sherlock sniffed, picking up the newspaper that Mrs Hudson had brought up that morning.

"Dad."

Sherlock hated that tone. Refusing to give into it he lifted the paper a little higher.

"Dad, he wasn't looking for a fight-"

"How long have you been in this family," Sherlock muttered to page seven. "We're always looking for a fight. Your face would be an indication of how strong those genes are."

John actually reached out and pulled at the paper by the crease. The surprise of it meant that Sherlock released his grip rather than hold on tightly.

"You've been acting weird all day. You got pissed off with Mrs Hudson for saying there should be more kids like me. I don't…" John trailed off suddenly and blinked looking unsure.

"You have a theory," Sherlock prompted as he settled himself in his chair.

John swallowed. "You…" he shook his head. "I can't see you beating up other kids," he said slowly.

How ironic that was. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow.

"You…verbally," John decided. "You were cruel verbally."

There were two answers. Both made him look bad and both were true.

One, however, was better than the other.

"After your mother…" Sherlock frowned and stared at the table. "After she left I was difficult. Merciless. I believe I am correct in saying everyone involved was relieved when I left for university. Mycroft certainly breathed a sigh of relief; he was my most typical target."

"Because you were upset?"

It would be so easy to lie.

Easy, but not worth it. Not if he were found out.

"I was angry," Sherlock replied. "Angry with everything because I wasn't sure what I felt. Anger was easier. Having power over others, control of their actions, it…helped."

John seemed to absorb that information carefully. "So…Grandpa…he was angry with you. Back then? But…I know it's not an excuse, but it wasn't like you were just being mean for the sake of it."

Answer two was apparently going to raise its head no matter what Sherlock did.

"I…" he cleared his throat, not at all sure how to have this discussion. Not at all sure that they should have it.

But it was John. John who deserved to hear it from Sherlock before anyone else decided to deliver the killing news.

"That incident raised previous issues," Sherlock replied, staring at the table.

"Previous issues?" John asked, his tone almost fearful.

Yes. "From many years before."

* * *

_The stick in his hand was whippet thin and glossy. It reminded him of the reeds that stuck out of the pond during the summer and of father blowing through them to make a whistle that summoned dogs over._

"_We're helping," Grandfather said, smiling at him encouragingly. "Correcting. You like making things right, don't you?"_

_Sherlock nodded, eager to be seen as right (so many people ignored him just because he was little even when he was cleverer than most adults put together) but even so…_

_He glanced at Mycroft again, a little confused._

_His brother was standing, topless, with his arms braced against the back of the sofa. His spine was rigid and there were marks across his back that Sherlock had never ever seen before._

_Maybe he'd been rolling around in the mud? Only they looked too neat for that and mud was never neat. Or painting…though it was an odd place to paint._

_Maybe some backs just looked like that. Or it could be cellotape making some of his back shiny-_

"_You want your brother to make friends?"_

_Sherlock nodded seriously. Mummy and father were very keen on it. Sherlock had no idea why, as most people Mycroft's age were far too stupid for his brother, but it seemed like an important thing._

"_Think of it like tapping him with a wand. Or a sword to knight him with bravery. One day the message will sink in."_

_The stick in his hand felt oddly heavy. "Won't it hurt?"_

"_He won't make a sound."_

_While that didn't mean it wouldn't hurt, Sherlock supposed he could see the logic. After all, there was nothing stopping Mycroft from saying anything now and he was just standing silently, waiting._

_His grandfather's hand covered his. "One day, you might be able to do this on your own to help your brother. I do have business to attend to, but Mycroft needs correction and that is more important at the moment."_

_Together, their hand moved down, the stick whistling at the strength of his grandfather's hand._

_A line appeared on Mycroft's back and he jolted but stayed silent._

_It didn't feel like a good thing._

* * *

"_Did it hurt?"_

"_Go away."_

_Sherlock scowled at his brother. "If it hurt you should tell Grandfather."_

_Mycroft stared sullenly at the television. "Go away."_

"_I only did it to help," Sherlock stamped his foot. "Mummy's always telling me to be more helpful."_

_Mycroft's jaw clenched and his eyes turned a little bright._

_Confused, Sherlock sat down opposite him, chin on his knees as he studied his brother._

"_I won't do it if it hurts you," he decided. "I'll learn lots of things at school and work out another way to get you friends." He pondered it for a moment. "Maybe the people that you go to school with are just boring. Most of the people in my class are."_

_Mycroft almost smiled and swallowed. "Maybe," he said quietly. "But do as Grandfather says."_

"_Why?" Sherlock asked, wrinkling his nose. "If he's wrong then I don't want to be stupid and just do as he says."_

"_Promise me," Mycroft said suddenly snapping his attention properly to Sherlock. "You will do as he says."_

"_Shan't," Sherlock declared standing up. "I'll do what I want to do."_

* * *

_The next time Mycroft was stood over the table and deliberately caught Sherlock's eyes. _

"_Shall," he mouthed at Sherlock._

_It had been all very well saying shan't to Mycroft a few days ago but Sherlock forgot sometimes just how big his grandfather was. And how much he liked having that rare smile directed at him. It was nice to be spoiled._

_And if Mycroft wanted it to happen then Sherlock supposed there wasn't much harm._

"_Ready to help again?"_

_Sherlock nodded and stepped over as his grandfather reached for the stick._

_And then every thought fled when Sherlock saw Mycroft's back._

_It was bruised and those fine red lines that had looked so neat were angry-looking among the vivid purples and greens._

_Sherlock had bruised himself a few times but when it went purple it always hurt the most. And he'd never had a bruise look like that._

_Mycroft was in pain._

_In Sherlock's experience, pressing against a bruise made it hurt worse. If they used the stick…_

_The stick that was being placed in his hand._

"_Shan't," he whispered._

"_Hmm? Speak up boy."_

_Mycroft's head turned and then shook._

_Sherlock looked at the bruises again._

"_Shan't," he declared loudly. "I'm going to tell Mummy-"_

_The blow came from nowhere and then things blurred._

* * *

His son looked pale.

"What happened after that?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I woke up in hospital. I believe he caught me at a wrong angle and I'd hit my head on the table. I had a concussion."

John looked a little ill. "He actually made you…" he shifted in the chair. "God, he really was a wanker," John breathed.

"Bad insult," Sherlock corrected automatically.

It didn't make John grin. Instead he seemed oblivious to the correction and stared at the table.

"How did you get to the hospital?"

Strangely he'd never asked the question before. It simply seemed like a logical sequence of events.

"I was told my grandfather panicked and tried to blame it on Mycroft. When my parents arrived, Mycroft told them everything."

"Wait," John shook his head. "What does this have to do with the other story, the one where you were a tosser to people?"

Surely his son wasn't quite that thick. "My father and I do not get on. I helped our grandfather abuse Mycroft and didn't tell him about it."

John gaped. "That's why you don't get on?" he asked slowly. "Because…but you were a kid."

Sherlock studied John for a moment and then leaned forward. "I cannot pretend to understand how one feels about two children," he said. "But I would kill anyone who had meant you harm. Even if I had other children I believe you would be my favourite. If any of them harmed you…" Sherlock shook his head. "I do not know that I would forgive them."

John looked rocked. Any second now he would say-

"Then fuck him," John breathed suddenly. "We don't need him."

Oh.

That was unexpected.

* * *

John was true to his word. The phone rang on Monday and John slammed it back down when his grandfather asked if John wanted to come over for chess. His son then ignored the next ten phone calls and rejected the next five that occurred on his mobile.

"You are not required to choose," Sherlock said watching John.

"Good," John said, glaring at the television, much like his Uncle had years ago. "I hate being required to do something."

That, Sherlock decided, was rather eerie. He wasn't entirely sure he liked seeing himself in John sometimes.

* * *

Tuesday morning had his parents at the door.

Tuesday afternoon had Mycroft letting himself in with a key procured from some governmental lab.

"What is going on?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Your nephew is in a snit. Leave him alone."

"Why is he in a 'snit'?" Mycroft demanded.

"We shared family memories. The time I was accused of bullying, the time I beat you with a stick. The usual."

Mycroft stared at him.

For a long time.

Slightly uncomfortable, Sherlock glared up from his teeth experiment. "Yes?"

"Why on God's name would you bother bringing that up?" Mycroft asked sounding utterly baffled.

"Seemed fitting for the conversation at the time," Sherlock replied, looking back down at his work. "For whatever reason, John has decided to be angry at our father. The logic baffles me so do not accuse me of encouraging him."

"How was it fitting for the conversation?" Mycroft demanded. "What possible relevance did it have unless you were playing 'why our grandfather is currently burning in hell'?"

The phrasing was so…uncontrolled that Sherlock blinked back up at Mycroft. "I believe that game is probably best conducted by you," Sherlock conceded after a moment.

Mycroft made an odd annoyed noise and shook his head. "Why is John angry with our father? Do you need me to talk to him? Explain things?"

That sounded odd. "Strangely I am not eager to have you redirect the blame back to me."

Mycroft was silent for a very long time.

"You were six," he said quietly, in a familiar tone that Sherlock was used to hearing in his own.

The tone of someone on the cusp of an epiphany.

"And?" Sherlock asked glancing up again.

Mycroft narrowed his gaze.

* * *

"_Shan't."_

_Oh God._

_Mycroft turned just in time to see his little brother's head crash into the corner of the table. Then, limp as a rag doll, Sherlock slumped to the floor._

_There was blood._

_Terrified, Mycroft dashed over as his grandfather backed away, pale faced._

"_Silly boy," the man said, sounding unsure. "Shouldn't have questioned me. Too spirited for his own good."_

_Sherlock looked far too pale against the vivid red._

"_He needs an ambulance," Mycroft demanded, looking up. "He needs-"_

"_Bed," his grandfather said, standing straight again. "Sleep it off. Maybe his mood will fade with it."_

_Mycroft bit his lip as he looked down at his little brother. _

_People could die from being hit over the head. And Sherlock was so little and there was blood and he looked pale._

_But Mycroft said nothing as his grandfather lifted Sherlock carefully into his arms and took him upstairs._

_Nothing at all._

* * *

"_Not well?" _

_His grandfather shook his head. "I put him to sleep. Haven't seen him since. I checked on him a few minutes ago and he was out like a light."_

"_You'll have to give me tips," Mummy said with a smile. "I can't remember the last time Sherlock didn't wander back down stairs after bed just to check something or ask a suddenly pressing question."_

_Father laughed. "Ah yes. Obviously bed time is when one should ask why bees are black and yellow instead of camouflaged," he said as he headed for his study. "I need to make a call, I'll be back soon."_

_Mummy and Grandfather started to discuss an upcoming charity event that Grandmother, when she'd been alive, had helped set up._

_What if Sherlock died?_

_Determined, Mycroft stood._

* * *

_His father's study was a place Mycroft rarely went to. Father liked to keep his work and home life separate and wasn't keen on him and Sherlock being in it._

"_Father?"_

_His father looked up. "I just need to make this phone call. Go and read for a bit and I'll be out soon-"_

"_You can't let him correct Sherlock too."_

_The words tumbled out of his mouth._

_And then they were there, out. In the open. Exposed._

_Gaping._

"_No-one could manage that," Father said absently. "Mycroft, just give me ten minutes-"_

_No._

_Braver now that the words had come out, Mycroft stood his ground._

"_Sherlock hit his head on the table and there was blood."_

_Father froze. "He's sick," he said sounding as if he were holding onto something. "He said…"_

_He suddenly didn't sound sure though. Slowly the phone went down, towards the base as Father's face started to drain of colour._

"_What did you mean 'correct Sherlock'?" Father asked in a hoarse tone._

_Mycroft squirmed. "I…I know I need to get better but he didn't want to help Grandfather and Grandfather got mad."_

_The phone dropped to the floor._

"_Get better?" Father asked looked white as a sheet now. "What…" he put a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. "Turn around," he said, sounding as if he were about to cry._

_Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock didn't want to do it."_

_He'd never seen his father stand so stiffly and shakily, as if he were nearer his seventies than his mid-thirties. Slowly, his hand reached out and lifted Mycroft's jumper._

_Then he let out a strangled sob._

_And in that moment all Mycroft could feel was sheer relief._

"_You didn't know," he whispered as he pressed against his father. "You really didn't know."_

_Cold hands gripped his face and lifted Mycroft's head. Red rimmed eyes studied his and slowly fury crashed in._

* * *

_Mycroft was sure that he would remember that night for the rest of his life. His mother's screams, his father shouting. The sound of his Grandfather roaring back. The desperate clutches of his mother as she pulled him upstairs and tried to see his scars. The terror when he dragged her to check on Sherlock and saw just how pale his little brother still was._

_The lights that lit their house. Police and ambulance both. A blur of faces as they took him to hospital._

"_Will he be okay?" Mycroft asked quietly as he looked down at Sherlock._

_Father was sat next to him, stroking a hand through Sherlock's curls on the un-bandaged side of his head. "You should be asleep," Father said quietly, pulling his hand away from Sherlock._

"_I…I should have told you," Mycroft said, staring at Sherlock. "I…if I had then he wouldn't be-"_

_Father pulled him close. "You listen to me," he said fiercely. "You and Sherlock are my children. I should have seen, I should have looked after you. Both of you. You have done nothing wrong, Mycroft. You did nothing to deserve this. Nothing."_

_Mycroft nodded and his father sighed._

* * *

"You and I need to have a conversation."

Lucian folded his arms at his youngest son. "What have you said to John?"

"This has nothing to do with him," Sherlock snapped. "I do not care that you and I do not get on. I accepted that years ago. But at least be honest-"

"About?"

"Why we do not get on," Sherlock tilted his chin. "I hurt Mycroft and you cannot forgive that."

"You humiliated him," Lucian snapped. "He was trying to help, trying to get you through a difficult time after what happened with Anna and you bullied him about his weight, his social life. Everything that you knew would hurt him-"

"Not then, not after Anna," Sherlock jabbed with his hand. "Before that. When I hit him."

Lucian blinked in confusion. He'd hit Mycroft? Brothers did do that he supposed. "That is your problem. You think that your words cannot be more painful than a blow-"

"I hit him with the cane."

Lucian stepped back.

"What on earth does that have to do with it?" he asked after a moment.

Sherlock stared at him and slowly started to pale. "No…you didn't speak to me…you barely looked at me."

"After Anna-"

"After…" Sherlock pressed his lips together. "After Grandfather. You spent all your time with Mycroft-"

"He'd been abused," Lucian glared at the ceiling, unwilling to have another rehash of Sherlock's imagined slights. "You have no idea what it is like to go through that, to feel so alone-"

"No." Sherlock's jaw clenched. "I hurt him and you couldn't forgive that. Grandfather gave me the cane. I was his, Mycroft was yours."

What?

Twenty two years ago he had felt a dawning moment of epiphany, close to what he later realised his sons saw every day with nearly everything they saw. They could slot things together, see the patterns and links-

The first time he had done it he had hoped to God that he never had to have a moment like that again.

He still wished that.

"I never blamed you," Lucian breathed feeling something fall. "You were six years old, Sherlock. How could I blame you?"

"I hit your son," Sherlock snapped.

"It doesn't work like that," Lucian said, utterly horrified. "You have a child, you know it doesn't work like that."

"I have one child who I love more than life itself," Sherlock said, tilting his chin. "Not even another child could compare to that."

"No," Lucian agreed. "It's different, it's always different. But it's never more or less."

Sherlock snorted.

Tears blurred Lucian's vision.

Dear God, how badly had he failed his sons?

And it was too late.

Too much had happened, too much had been said in the heat of the moment. Too many impressions of each other had been created for them to ever go back. How many times had he accused Sherlock of being selfish, cruel, arrogant and how many times had Sherlock taken that as further confirmation?

And the truth, now?

He liked Mycroft more than Sherlock.

And Sherlock knew it. Saw it every time they all met. There wouldn't be the benefit of lying until the story became truth, of pushing through pretence until it was reality. Sherlock's very nature, his mind and brilliance would never allow it.

"I'm sorry," was all he could say. "I never blamed you. I blamed myself and I blamed him, but never you."

Sherlock stared at him for the longest time. "It hardly matters now," he said woodenly.

It did. "You should never have thought that."

"Erroneous deduction," Sherlock muttered. "You changed in attitude after I hit Mycroft. I focused on who did the hitting rather than who received the blow. Amateur mistake," he added, looking away.

"You were six."

Sherlock said nothing for a moment. "I will correct John. I imagine he'll be contrite tomorrow," he said eventually before turning on his heel and walking out.

Lucian stared at the doorway for an age, tears falling.

A thousand and one mistakes and a million different choices.

* * *

"_You should wake him up," Bella said with a smile._

_Lucian shook his head as he watched Sherlock sleep. His son looked deceptively angelic while dreaming. "He needs his rest," he murmured, stroking the dark curls. _

"_Mycroft fell asleep," Bella added. "He hates the therapy."_

_Lucian wasn't surprised. He wasn't that convinced about it himself except it seemed wrong to bottle things up and pretend again. To hope that someone could change just because times had._

_Sherlock was precious. He seemed to have almost forgotten about what had happened half a year ago. The child he had managed to protect._

_He pressed a kiss against the boy's head. "Goodnight Sherlock," he said gently as he stood. "Sleep well."_

* * *

Sherlock poked his son.

"G'way," John complained, rolling away.

"We have a deal. I can wake you and you can wake me."

His son sighed. "Do I have to be properly awake? You sent me to school," he added mutinously.

"I made an error."

That had John turning around. "Really?" John asked with a long yawn. "Was it about Grandpa?"

Sherlock stroked a hand through John's hair. "Yes."

The relief in John's eyes made Sherlock gnaw with jealousy. "So things are okay now?" his twelve year old asked hopefully.

Sherlock hesitated.

"Yes."

John smiled and snuggled in a little closer as Sherlock curled around his child.

The boy who would always be his favourite, no matter what happened.

For him, he could pretend.

"If anyone ever finds out you hugged me to sleep I'm saying it's 'cause you have issues."

Sherlock smiled. "Do you really think my list of 'issues' will be less embarrassing than being hugged?"

John huffed. "Bastard."

"Bad insult."

John sniggered and Sherlock closed his eyes at the sound.

* * *

Next Chapter: Not talking


	20. Talking

Talking

The Holmes family talk after the last argument. Or don't quite talk...

Thanks to NicolettelliW for betaing

* * *

Alone, Mycroft sipped his brandy. He had tried to get some work done, to focus on prepping for the meeting with the Swedish Ambassador tomorrow but his mind hadn't been able to focus.

Instead all he could do was stare at the fading light coming through the window and remember.

* * *

_It was clear that Sherlock had no intention of making an effort, even if it was their parents' anniversary party. At the age of seventeen, Sherlock sat slumped in his seat, radiating boredom and disinterest. The moment someone tried to approach those silvered eyes would flicker over with disdain and the familiar sneer of disgust would creep over his face._

_"You should talk to them," Mycroft said with a sigh as he sat down. "Father's connections might-"_

_"Just because you want to grow fat at a desk, begging for approval does not mean I do," Sherlock snapped, staring at something to the left of Mycroft._

_"Father said that you were almost thrown out of sixth form last week."_

_Sherlock continued to stare. "We have a new agreement. I pass with flying colours and drag up their scores and they don't attempt to teach me the wrong things. Or at all," he added, one eye narrowing._

_"You do not know everything, Sherlock."_

_"I know you failed to lose your virginity last week," Sherlock snapped. "Were you too busy rolling around the bed to fuck her properly?"_

_The comment made him burn a little inside, but he remained visibly impassive. "Unlike you, Sherlock, I understand the benefits of putting effort in and not just contenting myself with some pathetic fumble in the wine cellar."_

_Sherlock's jaw clenched and he almost took his eyes from what he was staring at-_

_A baby._

_A chubby faced, blond haired baby that was sucking its fist and inspecting a plump, soft rabbit toy with fascination._

_All of Mycroft's frustration drained away as he stared at the child that would have been the same age as his potential niece or nephew._

_"Sherlock-"_

_Realising he'd been caught, Sherlock's gaze snapped away from it and his chin jutted out dangerously as he glared at Mycroft._

_Staring at the table, suddenly unsure and hating it, Mycroft resisted the urge to fidget. "Have you heard anything from her?"_

_"Like?" Sherlock sneered. _

_Mycroft shook his head. "You might talk. She might understand how you feel-"_

_"It was a ball of cells," Sherlock snapped. "It was nothing. It was a mistake. One to be thrown away or flushed…" Hhe pressed his lips together. "It was nothing."_

_"It seems that way," Mycroft said slowly._

_The smile was terrifyingly dangerous._

_"Should I be crying?" Sherlock mocked. "Oh, woe is me; my parents deemed me unfit to have a baby. Perhaps they were just worried that it would be like you. A useless, weak lump that only ever asks how high when he's told to jump."_

_Mycroft forced himself not to react._

_"A crying, pathetic child who can't even make a friend when threatened with a cane. Who can't even shag a girl or see his feet-"_

_Their father hauled Sherlock out of the chair. "I don't want to hear another word come out of your mouth," their father hissed as Mycroft opened his mouth and then closed it._

_Sherlock caught the gesture and laughed. "That's it, you keep your mouth shut. Thank God Grandfather trained you to do something right-"_

_He was getting loud._

_Most of the people around them had quietened quieted down and their mother had rushed over, a hand on their father's arm to calm him._

_"Go home," father said in a shaking voice. "I will deal with you later. I am not giving you a scene."_

_Sherlock threw up his hands. "Finally," he muttered. "Release."_

* * *

"Why were you okay with him?"

Mycroft blinked at his nephew. Sherlock seemed unwilling to talk to anyone other than John at the moment and had demonstrated it in his usual dramatic way of storming out when Mycroft appeared.

"I'm used to it," Mycroft sighed. "When your father returns-"

"No," John shook his head. "I mean…when you were…when he…I mean, I get that he was a kid and it wasn't his fault but most people wouldn't be okay with that the way you were. It was…" he sighed and shook his head. "Forget it," John muttered in a defeated tone.

"He is my brother," Mycroft said slowly. "Before…before we fell out as teenagers we were close. In many ways…" Mycroft resisted the urge to wince at the idea of what he was about to say to his popular nephew. "In many ways he was, for a long time, my only childhood friend."

John looked up and pulled a face. "I can't…I can't picture it," he confessed. "You two…you can't manage three minutes without a sniping match."

Mycroft nodded. "How long do you think he will be?"

"You can leave me on my own-"

"I would rather not," Mycroft replied.

There was the obligatory roll of the eyes from the teenager.

Then a frown.

"Wait…" John tilted his head. "You…" A look of guilt suddenly shifted over his face. "Oh…it was…you fell out about me, right? When Mum was pregnant?"

"I told you. It was about me not telling our parents that he wanted you," Mycroft said quietly.

There was a strange look in John's eyes, a hunger for something. "So…was he upset then? When he found out that Mum had gone?"

"I wasn't there," Mycroft said, grateful that he had an easy answer to that. "I would have thought so, yes."

John seemed to turn that over. "I…the way everyone describes him…"John glanced at the door. "I know he loves me now," John said with the tone of one already bored with that conversation. "But back then…do you think he'd have been interested in me? Babies are boring," he added.

Mycroft closed his eyes.

* * *

_"They keep talking about the scandal," Anna said sounding bitter._

_Mycroft paused in the hallway._

_"One would think they would be overjoyed to have something to gossip over," Sherlock's voice muttered petulantly._

_"They don't want me to have it," Anna said, her voice wobbling just a little bit._

_Sherlock said nothing which, for his brother, was highly unusual._

_"Do you think it would be better or worse to know what it would have been?" Anna asked in an oddly small voice. "Calling the baby 'it'-"_

_"Embryo," Sherlock corrected._

_Anna was silent._

_"No," Sherlock said after a moment in a strange voice. "Knowing…it won't make it easier. It will make it clearer to picture."_

_"This would be a baby," Anna said in a tearful voice. "I want to be able to picture it. Him, her…whatever it is. I want to have a name that I can think of when…"_

_"Why?" Sherlock snapped. "It won't have even existed."_

_Anna said nothing more._

_"It's smaller than a pea," Sherlock added. _

_"You always say the smallest things are often the most important thing," Anna sighed. _

_Silence._

_When Mycroft peered around, Sherlock was staring at Anna's stomach, looking reluctantly curious while Anna sat with her elbow on the arm of the chair, her hand covering her face as she sighed._

_They looked so young._

_Sherlock looked so young._

_And he hated that he didn't know what to do._

* * *

"Yes," Mycroft said eventually. "In hindsight, I think it would have been the making of him. You certainly have been now."

John smiled. "But I can pop a lock, con people for fivers and know the best forgers in the city."

Mycroft sighed. "That helps," he admitted. "But do you think the son of Sherlock Holmes would ever be any different?"

"He'd know the second best forgers," John said after a moment and flashed a grin at Mycroft.

Mycroft almost smiled back in response. "You would have been indulged and spoilt," Mycroft said slowly. "You…you were wanted. Never doubt that."

A small frown crossed John's face, but he said nothing.

"John?"

"Stupid," John said shaking his head. "After everything else-"

"If this week has taught me anything it is that those stupid things often become big things if not discussed."

"You're not going to get all touchy feely…are you?" John asked worriedly.

"I doubt it. A discussion however is necessary."

"It's just…" John looked to the side. "Everyone says how much they wanted me. Grandpa, Grandma, Sherlock, you, but none of you…wanted it enough to do anything. Mum was sixteen and she ran away and became a criminal. You all just…" he shrugged. "I get it-"

"Get what?"

"That you had other problems. I just…it's fine, but I'm not stupid. Grandma and Grandpa wanted what was best for Dad and they didn't think I was it. Dad was too proud and you…I guess agreed with Grandma and Grandpa."

Mycroft sighed.

"I'm not a kid," John added. "I know that babies don't magically turn up and people are in love and happy and it's the sunset ending. I know I was a mistake-"

"Accident," Mycroft snapped. "You were an accident. Never a mistake."

John opened his mouth and let out a frustrated sigh. "Doesn't matter," he muttered.

"You think we're idealising it?"

"You are," John said petulantly.

There were a few things that Mycroft could say, a few things he wanted to-

But it was Sherlock's place to decide whether they were said and when. Not his.

* * *

"You will go to the most annoying places to avoid me," Mycroft complained as his shoes threatened to sink into the muddy field. One wouldn't believe it was the first week of July with all the rain they'd been having.

Sherlock was crouched by the huge hole that had once contained a body. "One day it will occur to you that you do not need to follow," he said, standing up in the tent that had been erected while the body was being dug up.

"Have you talked to our parents?"

Sherlock stripped off the gloves he had been wearing. "No," he said eventually. "What is there to possibly talk about?"

"It was not talking that led us to this," Mycroft said quietly.

"Then I am merely a product of my environment and can have no responsibility for what has happened-"

"They're devastated."

Sherlock heaved an annoyed sigh. "Knowing why we do not get on doesn't not change the fact that we do not get on. Why are they making such an issue?"

"They should have talked to you," Mycroft said, irritation creeping into his voice.

"That sounds…" Sherlock turned and tilted his head at Mycroft. "Are you annoyed with them?" he asked sounding incredulous. "Saint Mycroft, champion of the Holmes parents is annoyed? Has fire started falling from the sky?"

"You were six years old," Mycroft snapped. "What he did to you was as repugnant as what he did to me. They should have seen that instead of having hoped it would fade away."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Has the Russian Ambassador started to insist you drink his tea again? Is that what has you in such a fine mood? It's tedious, whatever the reason-"

"Take this seriously-"

"Why?" Sherlock snapped. "Shall we be realistic? For the past twenty three wo years our parents have had an impression about me and I them. I am not a child; I do not require them in my life. Their approval does not matter to me and I have no wish to pretend otherwise. Simply put, we are where we are and I see no reason to whine about it."

Mycroft stared at him. "You are so much like your son," he sighed.

That had Sherlock frowning. "How?" he asked, suddenly alert.

"He…" Mycroft sighed. "He was asking about when Anna left. Apparently he has decided that we are romanticising how we all felt."

Sherlock pulled a face, looking deeply unhappy.

"You have no wish to pretend?" Mycroft asked, lifting his umbrella. "Then you can deal with the questions about why you thought your pride was more important than your 'mistake'."

Sherlock glared at him. "That's verging on the more aggressive side of your usual style."

"I pretended," Mycroft said quietly. "Pretended not to be envious of you because he liked you, because people were always charmed or taken by you when you were a child. John pretended to trust more than he did, to forgive more than he did. You are being insufferably selfish, Sherlock, if you do not try to conduct damage limitation on this."

Mycroft turned to leave the tent and didn't make it further than three steps when the balled up gloves hit him in the back of the head.

"Do not-"

"Damage limitation?" Sherlock breathed. "Damage limitation? The last time you told me that I nodded my head like a dutiful son-"

"The dutiful son," Mycroft scoffed turning properly to him now. "When have you ever been that?"

"You told me it would be for the best," Sherlock hissed. "Do you have any idea what I would have missed had John not turned up-"

"Blame me," Mycroft sneered. "But John is right; you were too proud to ask for help and you let our parents decide-"

"I asked you!" Sherlock spat. "I asked you what you thought and you told me it would be for the best."

"I told you what our parents had told you. What you never argued against," Mycroft snapped back. "A thousand and one times I bent over for you, I helped you-"

"Yes, he did train you exceedingly well," Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft hit him.

Hard.

Sherlock staggered back a little and touched a hand to his already red jaw. "That's been years coming," he said with a smirk. "Grandfather popping out already?"

"Don't you dare blame me," Mycroft snarled, his temper still snapping. "You at sixteen would have been an awful father-"

Sherlock's eyes flared up in fury. "I love my son-"

"Your son pointed out that he is interesting. Abused, neglected and raised by criminals, he is interesting to you. Do you honestly believe if he had been raised in a healthy, happy home you would care about him half as much?"

Sherlock froze.

It was addictive.

"Anna loved him so much that she risked everything for him when he was that 'useless bundle of cells'," Mycroft said stepping forward. "You were an addict by eighteen, overdosing at twenty and 'experimenting' with everything under the sun. Do you honestly believe anyone in their right mind would have allowed you near John? You would have faded from his life, an absent father he would have been ashamed of. Anna might have found a nice replacement; a proper father who doesn't dump John's friends on his parents or get high in front of his son and tell him it's his fault."

Sherlock didn't move.

At all.

"You are ruining that boy."

Mycroft turned away, the victory feeling oddly hollow, however long he had waited to have something to finally win against Sherlock.

Strange, how winning could feel so much like he was losing something.

* * *

"Good case?" John asked, curled around the book he was reading.

"You never read," Sherlock said stepping into the living area.

"For English," John sighed. "Homework is to read." The unimpressed look suggested it hadn't been a welcome suggestion.

"Are you happy?"

The question slipped out without Sherlock intending it to.

"No," John replied tersely. "The book's boring."

Sherlock studied his son closely; trying to find indicators that John was happy or sad or lacking-

"Yes?" John asked, looking up over the book.

Sherlock pulled his chair over slightly and sat in it.

"Oh God, do we have to?" John asked, pained. "Yes I know you love me, Mycroft loves me and Grandma and Grandpa love me. Mrs Hudson is deeply fond of me. Lestrade likes me because you don't snap at people quite so much. The postman likes me because I actually pick the post up. Can we not-"

"It wasn't my pride," Sherlock said quietly. "That wasn't why I didn't say anything when…" Just the idea of the words made him want to vomit now. "When the option of abortion came up."

John put the book down, looking suddenly pale. "What was it then?"

"I…I wanted you," Sherlock said slowly. "I was reluctant to admit that. But…I didn't want to be a father."

John looked down.

"We have a convoluted history between fathers and their sons," Sherlock continued. "And I was so sick of doing what I had to do. Of studying and then going to university to get a respectable job…it was so endlessly boring. To study, work and die. I saw you…you were my death sentence because I would have tried for you and I would have failed."

John pulled his feet up to his chest as the book slipped to the floor.

"I used to…when I first came to live with you I used to wonder what it would have been like being raised by you and Mum. Or if you two got together-"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at that. "It will not be happening-"

"I know. I still wondered though," John said quietly.

The brain was obnoxious like that, Sherlock thought rebelliously, sympathising with his son. No matter how much you knew the fantasy was foolish the brain still wondered about useless things.

"We going over for lunch tomorrow?" John asked, clearly wanting to change the subject.

Lunch. Mycroft. His parents.

_"Anna might have found a nice replacement; a proper father who doesn't dump John's friends on his parents or get high in front of his son and tell him it's his fault."_

A proper father would take his son to see the family, to have lunch. He would pretend.

Sherlock nodded.

* * *

The entire affair was excruciating.

His father watched him constantly and his mother's worried gaze jumped between them all as she tried to feed them, as if to weigh them all down and keep them in the house forever.

He and Mycroft avoided each other.

Completely.

For the most part.

"A word, if you would," Mycroft said quietly.

Feeling the weight of John's gaze on him, Sherlock nodded and followed Mycroft into the garden.

"What I said," Mycroft said as he closed the patio door behind them, "was inexcusable."

Sherlock nodded.

The silence dragged.

"You're not even going to do it, are you?" Mycroft breathed in annoyance. "I apologise and you can't do the same-"

"That was not an apology, that was a statement of fact," Sherlock snapped. "Do not insult my intelligence."

"You have never apologised to me, not once," Mycroft said, eyes narrowing.

"I have never claimed to."

Mycroft's lips pinched together. "John can tell something is wrong."

"That's because he isn't stupid," Sherlock replied. "Or maybe it's because I'm such a terrible father that I allow him no ignorance in my quest for him to be interesting."

"I am failing to remember why I am attempting this," Mycroft muttered.

"I have no clue why you're attempting this," Sherlock agreed. "It's a mystery to me. What exactly is it that you are attempting to salvage?"

"John," Mycroft decided with a furious look in his eyes. "If you cut us out, if you try to do this on your own, you will fail. Alone you will ruin that child, Sherlock."

There was the same triumphant look in Mycroft's eyes that he had shown the day before. The triumph of one who finally had a weapon in a previously defenceless fight.

And Sherlock had no counter.

Alone and without the rest of the family to help he would ruin John.

"Just because we do not get on does not mean I will stop John from seeing them." Sherlock narrowed his eyes as Mycroft flinched slightly at the use of 'them' instead of 'you'.

"And me?" Mycroft asked in an icy tone.

Sherlock hesitated.

John adored Mycroft. And, as much as Sherlock despised the notion, Mycroft was almost the third parent at times; the one who knew what John had gone through, who knew how it felt to feel unwanted and useless, the one who knew how to crawl back up from that.

There was just enough there that Mycroft had a chance of winning John from him if he chose to.

"Poor phrasing," Sherlock said, looking away.

"Backing down, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked in a triumphant tone. "Is that because I am the one constant thing in his life or because of my pull with social services?"

What?

Sherlock felt something drain from his face and saw sudden realisation blur into Mycroft's as if he had just heard his own words.

"That…" Mycroft looked suddenly ill. "That was an empty threat," he said in a tight voice.

Sherlock nodded, the idea still churning painfully in his gut. "Yes, well, it appears you have finally found something to use against me. Congratulations. Those wounds that have festered for twenty years must be feeling a little better."

Sherlock watched as Mycroft shook his head and turned slightly, rubbing his fingers over his eyes as it to collect himself.

And, as he turned, he revealed a pale John.

No.

His son was staring at Mycroft in horror. In disbelief.

No.

As much as it pained Sherlock to accept it, he could fully understand the power one felt when they finally had a weapon to use against someone who frustrated them. It was a Holmes thing, he supposed and he had delighted in using things against his parents, against Mycroft.

But John wouldn't understand that.

It wasn't in his nature to feel that triumph, to feel that addiction to power.

Walter's curse to them all, Sherlock supposed.

Mycroft looked over, frowned at him and then turned.

"How long have you been there?" Mycroft asked hoarsely.

John stared at him, then turned around and walked back into the house.

Sherlock watched as Mycroft walked after him and closed his eyes trying to collect himself, trying to work out how to fix it.

A time machine seemed the easiest solution.

* * *

"-he has said far worse to me-"

Mycroft was panicking, Sherlock thought with some surprise as he stepped into the lounge. He never reacted well when he panicked.

"He's never used me against you like that," John said, sounding surprisingly mature. "Never."

"John-"

"You told him he was a bad father," John bit out. "You told my Dad he was a bad father."

The fury in John's voice was comforting. Foolish, but comforting.

"He threatened to stop me from seeing you," Mycroft hissed.

"I was there," John argued, arms folded and eyes bright. "I heard you. Both of you."

"John-"

His son shook his head and walked over to Sherlock. "I want to go home."

"John-" Sherlock opened his mouth and then-

No words. What would make this better, make this right?

"I want to go home and not come back," John said firmly, staring fixatedly at Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock cupped a hand around his son's head and looked down into the pale, young face.

Too much for one day, he decided. His son had dug his heels in and that would be it for now. "Wait outside," he said gently, squeezing the hand cupping John's head before letting him go.

John nodded and without looking at anyone else, almost ran through the doorway.

When Sherlock looked back over Mycroft was staring at the wall, his face utterly unreadable.

"He needs you, all of you," Sherlock said quietly. "But I swear Mycroft, make that threat one more time, I will take my son and you will never see either one of us again."

"I would say the same to you," Mycroft said woodenly.

"I don't need to," Sherlock said, turning to walk away. "You've lost him."

The silence was a deafening confirmation.

* * *

They didn't even say goodbye to his parents.

What really was there to say?

* * *

"You're not a bad Dad," John said, staring out of the taxi window.

Sherlock lifted his arm and John turned into him, snuggling close.

"We'll be fine," John said firmly. "We'll manage."

Sherlock closed his eyes, an uncomfortable weight in his chest as Mycroft's pale face haunted him. The picture of his parents' baffled looks as they realised there had been no goodbye, no promise to return.

Mycroft would have to explain it, he supposed. Explain how two stupid moments had spilt them completely.

Sherlock pulled his son closer.

Strange, how winning could feel so much like losing.

* * *

Up Next:

A month of Sundays - The Holmes family over a month (includes what happened with John while Sherlock and Mycroft were having a row)

Donovan - Sally Donovan transfers back to Lestrade's unit.


	21. A month of sundays

A month of Sundays

AN: This first Sunday is the Sunday when John and Sherlock go to dinner and Sherlock has the fight with Mycroft.

* * *

1st Sunday

Lucian hadn't even shaved.

For so many years her husband had always gotten out of bed before seven and pottered around with a cup of coffee. When he had retired he had taken to making the breakfast in a move that Bella found oddly sweet. For the past three days he had simply lain in bed until she roused him with coffee and toast.

Even then he was listless.

"You can't do this to yourself," she said gently one morning as the sun streamed into their bedroom.

"I keep going over it," Lucian said hoarsely. "Over and over. Every single time that I should have seen something was wrong or there was a sentence that didn't make sense-"

"We," Bella corrected him, laying her head on his chest. "We should have seen it."

"You did," Lucian said tightly. "You were starting to see it with Mycroft, you wanted to talk to Sherlock about what had happened. I was the one who wanted to pretend it would all fade away."

"We made that decision together," Bella sighed. "We made all our decisions together."

Lucian said nothing.

"We can't change it, darling. It breaks my heart but we can't change it. What we can do is try now."

Lucian rested his cheek against her hair.

"And that includes getting up, getting showered and deciding what we are going to do later on today when they come over."

"Sherlock won't come."

"Mycroft says he will," Bella said.

She could tell Lucian wasn't convinced but, all the same, a few minutes later he stirred and she moved to let him sit up and get out of bed.

* * *

Her grandson looked as if he would maim anyone that said one wrong word to his father.

It was sweet. Sad, painful, but sweet that he was so protective of Sherlock. Sherlock who looked exhausted and listless. Sherlock who didn't snap and mutter about anything and everything.

Instead her son made polite conversation about the weather and stayed silent for most of dinner.

At first she assumed it was his way of getting back at them. Sherlock had used silence as a weapon far too many times before. One look at Mycroft's guilty face was enough to tell her that some argument had happened there.

And Mycroft could be as cutting as his brother when he wished to be.

"Any plans for the summer holidays?" Bella asked John.

Her grandson shrugged.

Silence.

Then, as if wincing at the uncomfortable atmosphere, John relented. "Chris is away," he said stabbing his potato. "They're off to Florida. Mrs Hudson told me places they should go."

Mrs Hudson. The woman who got to see Bella's son and grandson every single day.

"That was good of her," Bella said.

Silence.

"Do you want to have some of your friends here again?" Bella asked.

John's gaze flickered to Sherlock who was moving his beans around his plate, barely paying attention to the conversation. After a moment's thought, John shook his head. "Most of 'em are away."

"They won't be away for the entire holiday-"

Next to her, Lucian reached for her hand under the table and shook his head ever so slightly. "We'll see how it goes, won't we, John?"

A flicker of relief showed and John nodded.

He was slipping away.

* * *

Once the dinner plates had been cleared, Mycroft asked Sherlock outside and John sat awkwardly at the table staring at the table cloth.

"I understand that you're angry with us," Bella began slowly. "We handled things terribly with your father-"

John let out an annoyed breath.

"We have made mistakes," Lucian suddenly said. "And that-"

John was shaking his head.

"What are you thinking?" Bella asked softly. "Please…what's upsetting you the most about this?"

Anna's stubborn chin jutted out and John glared at the centre of the table.

"He's not something you need to fix," John said eventually.

"We're not saying-"

"You are," John protested. "Every time you say that he isn't this or isn't that. And you sugar coat everything-"

"You are twelve years old," Lucian said firmly. "You have been through enough trials in your life without having to deal with every single issue that comes our way."

"I'm not-"

"You are a child," Lucian cut over John. "And I will not apologise for wanting to keep my grandson from the evils of the world."

"I'm not the kind of child you're used to," John said with a glare. "I'm not…I know what life is like. Real life-"

Lucian shook his head.

"Lucian-" Bella warned, seeing the look on John's face.

"Your father is treating you far too much like his mate," Lucian snapped. "Whatever notion that you have about knowing the real world-"

"Mum was homeless when I was a baby."

Bella felt something fall from her heart.

"Mum used to steal my Christmas and birthday presents for me. If we were short I'd help her nick the shopping. I had to lie to social services twice about Mum so they wouldn't take me away. One term I had to pinch my own dinner money," John said with a determined hiss to his voice. "I know more about the real world, about not having money and what people will do to survive than either of you."

Tears blurred her eyes at the thought of her grandson having to do that, knowing that there wouldn't be enough money for the basic things most children took for granted. "You should never have been raised that way," she started to say.

John looked up at both of them. "Thing is ... I was. I was raised so that less than a year before I met you I was used to steal from a house like yours-but then, if we went your way, I would never have been born at all."

Her brain stuttered.

Lucian jolted next to her. "Your father-"

"But Mum wanted me," John's voice wobbled as he spoke. "And then you never once bothered to ask her, to look her up. I was just another of Dad's mistakes to be fixed and forgotten."

"No," Bella said fiercely. "Please, that was never what we thought-"

"Stop lying," John snapped. "All this family ever does is lie and cover things up so that nothing sounds as bad as it is-"

"Because you were our chance at getting it right."

John stared at them both and Bella closed her eyes at the desperation in Lucian's voice.

John shook his head and slipped away from the table as Lucian sighed and buried his head in his hands.

* * *

The front door slammed shut five minutes later.

* * *

"Sweetheart?"

Mycroft sat in the lounger staring blankly ahead.

"We'll try again next Sunday-"

Mycroft stood up. "There will be no more Sundays," he said in a numbed voice. "Nor Wednesdays."

Bella closed her eyes as her son walked out.

Gone.

All gone.

* * *

2nd Sunday

It had been foolish to hope that John would come on Wednesday.

It had become such a stable routine that Mycroft had everything cleared for a few hours with his nephew on habit alone. His mind had been racing about what to say, how to apologise, how to explain-

Part of him had known he was holding onto a dream.

He'd watched the CCTV that night, catching a glimpse of John and Sherlock walking through London, having lunch and then going to Bart's. John stood as close to Sherlock as he could physically manage without actually touching.

At four o'clock they were still in Bart's. There was no way to tell if John had tensed at the time, if it had crossed his mind to leave.

So he had sent a message to Sherlock, letting his brother know that Mycroft would not be going to Sunday lunch.

_Nor are we. Do what you like. SH_

_John should have a relationship with his grandparents, regardless of what arguments we three are having. MH_

That had been hard to type. 'We three'.

Mycroft had never imagined he and John would be fighting.

_John has refused to go. We were not the only ones having an argument apparently. SH_

What?

* * *

His mother looked dreadful and stared at him blankly as she opened the door.

"It's Sunday," he said gently, his intended ire fading instantly at the sight of her.

She smiled and then burst into tears.

Xxx

"Where's Father?"

"Out," she said, wiping at her eyes as they sat in the conservatory. "He goes for long walks now."

Mycroft nodded slowly, not at all sure how he had missed that. He'd been so focussed on spying on Sherlock and John that he hadn't really bothered to look at his parents.

"Therapy," his mother suddenly said. "That's where he is going. He calls them walks but we both know… he started three days ago."

"Is it helping?"

His mother sighed. "It's been three days," she said looking out the window.

"Sherlock said you and John had an argument," Mycroft said slowly.

"You're speaking?" she asked hopefully.

"No. We…I texted him. But we are not speaking. I said…I said unforgivable things to him."

The look of disappointment on her face unsettled him and, for a moment, he couldn't make out whether it was because he'd lost his temper or because he and Sherlock weren't talking.

She didn't even know he and John weren't talking.

Wincing, he looked away.

"The Holmes tongue should be a licenced weapon," his mother said slowly. "Sherlock has said enough things to you over the years."

"I threatened to have John taken from him," Mycroft stared at the carpet. "And John overheard."

"Oh," his mother breathed, closing her eyes. "Oh, Mycroft…" she trailed off, clearly gathering he thoughts. "We all say foolish things," his mother coaxed. "John knows that."

"And if I had said those things to anyone but Sherlock he might forgive me. But…" Mycroft sighed. "I would swear an oath there are days where John forgets that he is the child, not the parent. To hurt Sherlock…it is the one unforgivable act in his eyes."

"He loves you."

Mycroft nodded. "But he adores his father. And I have committed heresy by threatening to take Sherlock from John." He stared up at the coffee table. "I have lost."

"He cannot stay angry forever."

"Sherlock or John?" Mycroft asked feeling oddly numb by the whole thing. "Both have a great capacity for stubbornness."

"As do you," his mother pointed out gently. "More so than Sherlock even. And Sherlock has never been able to stay angry with you. He'll walk into your office ranting and raving about how unfair you are soon enough."

Mycroft almost smiled. "It's habit," he corrected.

"You know it isn't," she soothed. "Do you remember when you first started your job? You had a case of nerves and completely buckled."

Almost hissing at the memory, Mycroft glared at her, unhappy at it being brought up. "Mother that was seven years ago-"

"You took three days feeling sorry for yourself and then you worked like a demon so that the moment that arrogant brat faltered you could step in."

Amused at the passion in her voice, Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Am I to assume in this context that Sherlock is the arrogant brat?"

"His stubbornness certainly is," his mother sighed. "And my point is that you are not the type to sit and wallow in self-pity and wait to be forgiven."

Mycroft drew in a breath.

"Unlike your father."

He blinked.

That had almost sounded like…

Baffled, he looked at her. In all the years he had paid attention never had his mother and father broken their unified stance.

Well…his mother hadn't anyway. His father had often rolled his eyes at flowers or friends or frippery.

It took him so by surprise that he had no idea what to say.

"You are…arguing?"

She tutted. "Your father has decided to martyr himself in the hopes that penance will inspire an act of forgiveness from your brother."

Utterly baffling. It took Mycroft a few attempts to form words in response. "And have you…" he searched for the right way of phrasing it. "Expressed your point of view?"

"Your father is a proud man. And, on occasion, slow and resistant to constructive criticism."

When had they started having this kind of relationship? "Oh."

They sat in silence.

"Is this going to become a regular thing? You…expressing your views about father being an idiot?"

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" his mother asked suddenly sounding worried. "I love your father very much but…I do wonder sometimes if I am too…accepting of his views at times."

"No, no," Mycroft said, trying to reorganise his mind a little. "Just…I wish to be prepared if this is going to occur often."

"Well…I'm not entirely sure things can get much worse…though you are still talking to us which is a blessing."

The hidden worry in her voice made him soften slightly. Reaching out he took her hand in his and squeezed. "Never worry about that," he said seriously.

She took one look at him and burst into tears again.

God he missed his brother's acerbic complaints. The entire meeting would have been far more bearable if he could have annoyed his brother with the recount.

* * *

Third Sunday

"Do you have roast dinner?"

Greg looked up and then down at the flattened body. Just the sight of it made him struggle to keep his breakfast down.

"Not right now, Sherlock," he said with a glare. "Can we focus on this?"

There was a sigh of sheer disdain. "On Sundays," Sherlock said with frustration. "Do you do the Sunday lunch…thing?"

'Thing' was said with the exact same amount of exasperation Sherlock used when reading Anderson's reports.

"No."

"No?"

Greg shook his head.

"It is not tradition?"

"Not when your wife can't cook."

Shit.

He had not just said that. Not to Sherlock Holmes who wouldn't know tact if it bit him in the arse.

And there was absolutely no way of recovering.

"Fascinating," Sherlock said with a worrying amount of glee in his voice.

"You tell her that and I will never let you on a case again."

Sherlock snorted.

"I'll stop ignoring the fact that John is spending a lot of time hanging around crime scenes."

That seemed to get Sherlock's attention. The consulting detective shifted, as if uncomfortable.

"Still having issues with the family?"

Sherlock let out a long sigh. "We have always had issues," he muttered. "The problem was talking about them. Sentiment," he added with a sneer.

Coming from the man who had once threatened his son's school bullies to the point where Greg had been forced to step in and reassure the head that Sherlock was just blowing off steam?

"John all right?"

"No." The answer was frank and brutal. "He does not do well with grudges, no matter what he might think."

"Gonna try and fix it?"

Sherlock made an odd noise. "We are at a crime scene," he decided. "The conversation is inappropriate."

Greg looked up at the ceiling. "Good to know you know what the word means," he said after a second or so.

"How droll."

* * *

Fourth Sunday

Bella was waiting for him by the key hook.

"I'll be back-"

The words died on Lucian's lips as Bella reached out for his hand and then for the front door. "Shall we have a walk together?" she asked gently.

"Bella-" Lucian faltered, unsure how to explain that he wasn't just going on a walk but off to the therapy he had mostly managed to avoid for most of his life.

"I'll wait outside," she offered softly.

"You knew," Lucian sighed. "I wanted…I wanted to see if it was working first-"

Bella inclined her head to the door. "It's a beautiful day."

It was. Nodding, Lucian let his wife lead him outside and into the fresh air.

"I've been thinking," she said, looping her arm through his. "And sometimes…I worry that after all that happened, you and I have tried too hard to be perfect."

Perfect? He doubted anyone would accuse him of that.

"I think we have tried to be parents and grandparents rather than just us. The moment we saw we had a second chance we tried desperately to fulfil the role," Bella continued. "To make it something it wasn't."

They crossed the road and entered the park.

"John shouldn't know half the things he does," Lucian said after a moment as he mulled her words over. "It breaks my heart that he does."

"And mine," she agreed. "But he does know them, darling. Sherlock and Mycroft are too perceptive…we dance around the issues far too often."

Lucian glanced at her. "What would you prefer? We all scream at each other like fishwives?"

"Hardly our style," she scolded.

For a moment he was reminded of the beautiful blonde who had winked at him across a dance hall the first night they met. Amused, he leaned a little closer. "Why do I forget that you have a tendency to be right?"

"I haven't been," she said seriously. "I've been trying too hard, trying to hold on too tightly. I have no idea what I was thinking that first lunch John came over."

Oh, the staggered lunch dinner. Lucian winced at the memory. "Are you referring to the timing or the soup with 'bits'?"

Bella pulled a face. "Oh that poor boy. The look of horror on his face," she said shaking her head.

"And then Sherlock telling John the apple was poisoned."

There was a small smile at the memory. "I need to relax," she said firmly. "And you? Any decisions?"

A little uncomfortable with the idea of talking about it, Lucian stayed silent as they walked down the path. "I don't even know where to begin," he confessed.

"Can you think about it?" Bella asked. "While…" he saw the hesitation and then the determination, "while in therapy?"

Lucian nodded. "That I can do," he agreed, turning to place a kiss to her hair.

"Do we need to rush?" she asked as they continued their leisurely pace.

"No," he said, taking in a deep breath and enjoying the scenery. "We can take our time. It's been far too long since we did this."

His wife hummed in agreement.

"I told Mycroft you were slow," she added suddenly. "I don't think he's ever heard me complain about you like that before. Poor child looked like he would collapse in shock."

Lucian felt a chuckle bubble up. "I thought Mycroft was incapable of shock now."

"You could try complaining about me and see if it would have the same effect."

Lucian winced.

He doubted it.

"Well, serves you right for complaining about me then," his wife scolded with amusement.

"My dear, you go to a restaurant with your friends for the sole purpose of complaining about the food and staff."

"You play golf."

Touche.

* * *

Next up:

Donovan: Transferring back to Lestrade's unit was bad enough as it meant dealing with the 'him' again. And now there's a kid lurking around the crime scenes too...

Café: John is surprised to see a familiar face at Speedy's.

Uncle


	22. Donovan

Donovan

"So none of you are talking?"

"John and I are," Sherlock muttered with a sigh. "And I have no idea about my parents and Mycroft. But…" he rolled his eyes at the look on Anna's face. "Yes."

"It's so unlike John," Anna breathed, leaning forward to bury her face in her hands. "He was the most forgiving child on the planet when he was little."

"He got into three fights for people calling you names," Sherlock pointed out. "Apparently our son is stupidly loyal."

Anna shook her head either at his attitude or at John's. "How has he been?"

"Quiet. I offered to have some of his friends over," which had been a painful offer to make, "and he told me that he was too old for having someone over to play." Sherlock sighed. "The teenage years are apparently threatening."

"Could be worse," Anna said after a moment as she sat back up. "Wait until he starts wanting girls over."

Sherlock winced at the idea. "He's twelve."

"We were sixteen. It's not that far off."

Disliking the thought Sherlock shrugged it away. "Well?"

"You want advice? From me?" Anna asked in disbelief. "My way of dealing with my family was to steal from them, run away and then beg for money. You can't do much worse than me."

"I wouldn't make that wager," Sherlock sighed.

"When John was two we spent a week homeless because I was too stubborn to ask for help," Anna snapped. "And I can't tell you the amount of times we ended up in a shelter or squatted when he was little. My one saving grace was that I never got that bad after he turned four. I doubt he even remembers. As long as you have a roof over his head you're doing better than me."

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table, glaring at her. "You have put me in the frustrating position of being livid and triumphant," he muttered after a moment.

Anna smiled fakely at him. "I take that as a personal best."

* * *

Transferring back to Lestrade's unit was strange. The last time Sally had worked on it she had been in uniform and in awe of DI Greg Lestrade.

That was until he started letting a certain psychopath onto the crime scenes.

Said psychopath was a genius. A freak, true, but a genius. He could look at a scene and just see what had happened, solve the crimes in days.

Which would have been great if he wasn't such a bastard with it.

"He's in a mood," Lestrade warned her. "Family stuff. Just leave him be."

Sally just about resisted the urge to roll her eyes. If anyone had said that about her or another female there would have been some quip about time of the month or hormones.

With Sherlock Holmes it could just be the phase of the moon.

He was dreadful. Worse than Sally remembered and that was saying something. Even Lestrade was starting to look worn as they worked around the body and interviewed suspects.

Thankfully Sherlock was kept far away from the public.

* * *

The boy was hanging around again.

They'd been working on the case for three days now and, no matter where they went the boy seemed to follow. He'd be sitting on a wall, playing some game or reading a magazine. Sometimes he was kicking a ball against a wall or texting on his phone.

"You like crimes?" she asked, sitting herself down next to him.

The boy blinked up at her. Today he seemed to have the sports section of a newspaper. "Uh…" he frowned as if not entirely sure what the answer should be.

"You've been hanging around," Sally added as she opened up her lunch. "Following us."

"My Dad," the boy offered with a sigh. "I'm bored and he's working on the case so…" he shrugged.

"Friends?"

An odd expression crossed his face. "Yeah but…" he looked away. "It's stupid."

"You want to look after him?" Sally asked trying not to smile at how sweet it was. Teenage boys hated being thought of as sweet.

The boy nodded. "We had a family…thing. We've just got each other now."

Maybe his Mum had left then. "Does your Dad know you're here?"

The boy nodded. "I got lectured for looking at The Sun. Apparently I should be ashamed of myself."

Sally laughed. "It's cheap," she pointed out as she bit into her sandwich. "Want a bit?" she offered.

The boy smiled. "You have no idea how cheap," he said with a cheeky glint in his eyes. "And it's your lunch."

"It's a BLT," Sally tempted.

The kid was tempted and nodded. "I'm John," he said as he took the sandwich.

"Sally."

John put the paper to one side. "Have you almost solved it?" he asked.

"Getting there," Sally said, thinking of Holmes' tumble of deductions twenty minutes ago. "So what does your Dad do?"

"He-"

"John."

Oh fuck no.

No way.

Sherlock Holmes was striding over to them, eyes trained on John.

There was no way this sweet kid was related to Holmes.

John continued to munch his sandwich. "Solved it?"

Sherlock nodded absently, his eyes darting to the sandwich, Sally and her lunchbox and that look glinted in his eyes that warned her she was about to be humiliated.

"Dad."

Sherlock snapped his attention to his son.

"I've been fed."

Sherlock looked at her again then made an annoyed sound as he turned and walked away, muttering under his breath.

"You live with him?" Sally asked, horrified at the thought.

The same look that Sherlock had levelled at her seconds earlier was shot at her by his son. "He's my Dad," John said firmly, as if that was all there was to say on the matter. Awkwardly, he stood up and collected the paper. "Thanks for the sandwich," he added as he walked off.

Sally sighed as she watched him go.

* * *

"Shouldn't have said that to you last time," she said when she spotted the kid again a month later.

John shrugged. "Most people say it," he said looking a little sulky.

"Can I sit?"

The look of surprise was quite endearing, as if John couldn't quite figure out why she would want to. After a moment he nodded, still seeming suspicious.

"So…you're being raised by a single parent?"

John nodded, staring at the floor. "Mum's in prison," he said, looking off down the street.

"And you said you had a falling out with your family?"

John's jaw clenched and he nodded.

"My Mum raised me on her own," Sally said softly. "It's different when there are just two of you, isn't it?"

Softening a little, John turned and looked at her. Slowly he nodded.

"You want to look after them," Sally added. "I can still remember the first Christmas where I realised my Mum didn't have a present under the tree; they were all for me. I got a job the following year so that I could buy her something with my own money."

John blinked at her and then glanced down at the crime scene where his father was.

"They said he was a bad father," John said softly. "I'm the only one that gets to make that decision and he's not."

Sally smiled bitterly. "Like how at school when they say you're at a disadvantage coming from a broken home? It's stupid."

John nodded.

"But," she said looking at him. "Your Dad will worry about you more if you keep following him around instead of hanging out with your friends."

John clicked his jaw. "You don't know him," he said frankly. "He's upset."

"I know parents. None of them like to think their kid is suffering because they feel they have to be the caretaker."

John frowned. "You won't use this," he said suddenly fierce. "Will you?"

Sally shook her head. "But next time you have to bring me a sandwich," she said with a pointed look.

John grinned.

* * *

The following case John only turned up once.

"What you said to John," Sherlock said in a tight voice as he stared at the body. "It was appreciated."

"He's a good kid," Sally said as she crouched down next to him.

There was a single nod. "Anderson won't leave his wife. You can do better."

Surprised, she looked at him as he remained utterly fixated on the body.

"Before you make an idiotic mistake," Sherlock added.

"Your comments about my love life are not appreciated," Sally said, standing up.

"I do not appreciate you being an idiot," Holmes said as he opened the corpse's mouth. "We all have our trials to bear."

* * *

"I don't care if you glare," John muttered.

God, her son was turning into his father.

Anna waited. As much as John might put on the Holmes' sulk, it wasn't natural to him. Her son was more the type to flash with anger after a long build up and get it out of his system.

And, just like that, he started to deflate.

"Mycroft threatened to have me taken away by social services."

"Your Uncle is shit when he panics," Anna told her son. "Why do you think he usually tries to stay so calm?"

"He used me to hurt Dad," John muttered.

That had been stupid.

"And your grandparents?"

John stared at the table. "Grandpa and Sherlock don't get on. Grandpa made him think…" John's jaw clenched.

"And your grandmother?"

John shifted a little bit. "They come as a package," he said after a moment.

"I think they'll take what they can get," Anna soothe him. "After five weeks they'll be missing you."

And he missed them, she thought with a sigh. It was unfortunate that the one thing John had inherited from both herself and Sherlock was stubbornness. Her son could outwait God if he set his mind to it.

John rolled his eyes. "I'll think about it," he conceded.

Good.

Anna glanced over at the guard she was sure was on Moriarty's pay roll. He probably had at least three in most prisons.

Her son would need everyone he could get if this blew up.

* * *

Next up:

Café

Uncle


	23. Cafe

Cafe

Being back at school sucked.

Yawning, John wandered into Speedy's needing tea. He and Sherlock were currently having a contest of who could not buy the milk and give in and he was pretty sure Sherlock was already smirking in triumph.

He was also pretty sure that Sherlock knew Mrs Hudson gave him tea free of charge.

Still, he was half asleep which was why it took him a while to notice that his grandmother was sitting in the café.

Or maybe he was still asleep.

Confused, John wandered over to her cautiously. Maybe it was a look alike or-

"Good morning John," she greeted brightly.

"You're in a café?" John asked blankly. "You do know that they serve fish from a tin here?"

He watched her glance down at the menu. "And their bread?"

"Waitrose," John said frankly, trying to ignore the fact that Mrs Hudson often baked her own and that the Waitrose bread was for toast only.

"Then it would appear I will have to have their cakes and pastries."

John glanced over at Mrs Hudson's baked goods, trying to think of something bad to say about them.

"And the coffee is lovely."

"It's nescafe," John muttered.

"Are you upset that I'm here?"

Wincing at the hurt tone, John shook his head. "No, not…I just…you don't do cafes. You don't do places that serve English breakfasts all on one plate and let the butter slide into the beans."

She actually winced. "I do however do whatever it takes to have a conversation with my grandson."

Slumping in defeat, John sat down opposite her. "It's been two months," he said awkwardly.

"I am aware of that," she said calmly. "Eight weeks since you talked to us and eight weeks since you talked to your uncle."

John clenched his jaw.

"I could sit here and tell you that people always say the worst things to the people they love. I could point out that things said in the heat of an argument are said to wound and not because they are believed. I could also add that your father is no stranger to cruel words nor is he a wilting wallflower that cannot hold his own in a battle of wits."

"He said dad would ruin me if he tried to raise me alone."

His grandmother leaned back.

Apparently Mycroft hadn't mentioned that.

"You know he didn't mean it."

"And you know Dad would have agreed," John muttered. "He always thinks he's screwed something up with me."

"That's being a parent," she said gently.

"You would know."

The words tumbled out and the moment they were vocalised John wished he could call them back.

She flinched but swallowed. "Heat of the moment," she said gently.

"Sorry," John said staring at the table.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her nod. "We have made a lot of mistakes," she admitted. "Mine was pushing far too hard. I cannot hold onto any of you by forcing you to come and see me."

"It wasn't…" John looked away. "You didn't force me."

"I did," she corrected. "For the first few weeks, I did."

"I'm glad you did," John said honestly. "I just…Dad, he…"

"How about this," she asked, reaching out for his hand. "Every Sunday morning I will come here and have coffee and a pastry. I will be here at ten. You can come down and join me for as long as you like and if you like."

John hesitated, "But what if-"

"If you have something on then don't come. If I have something on I won't come. We could even use those new-fashioned inventions called telephones to let each other know if we aren't going to be able to make it."

John smiled reluctantly. "And Dad?"

"This is you and me," his grandmother said firmly. "This has nothing to do with any other member of our family. We will make our own arrangements. I would like to see my grandson and catch up on his week."

"And Sunday dinner?"

He actually missed it, just a bit.

"Let's start with coffee," his grandmother suggested.

John mulled it over. "And Grandpa?"

"Just you and me," she repeated.

* * *

"How is she?"

John slammed the door closed behind him. "You can tell I met Grandma just from a glance after I've been at school all day?" he asked with glee.

"That and I saw you."

Oh.

Slumping in some disappointment, John wandered over to his father. "That's cheating," he complained.

"No, that's observing," Sherlock corrected as he tapped away at the laptop. When John peered over it was the weather statistics for the past month. "You haven't answered the question."

"You could have asked her yourself," John pointed out, taking the chair opposite Sherlock.

Grey-blue eyes regarded him over the lap top. "It is a question I thought you were capable of answering. Was I mistaken?"

"No," John shifted in the chair. "She's fine."

Sherlock sighed. "One would think you'd never learned a thing from me."

"Tired," John offered. "Um…she was drinking their coffee so…eager to see me?"

Sherlock continued to watch, waiting.

"I don't know," John complained trying not to glare. "I wasn't expecting to see her. And I don't see all that stuff anyway."

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "I was merely referring to the use of the word fine as a descriptor. It's a terrible word."

Oh.

"Should I be concerned as to how sensitive you have become?"

"I'm not sensitive," John muttered, standing and bristling at the idea. "I don't cry."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock blink in confusion and then shake it away. "So will that be a regular thing? My mother voluntarily frequenting an establishment where it is possible to have a meal for under five pounds?"

"Every Sunday," John confirmed as he reached for the kettle.

"Did you buy milk?" Sherlock asked calmly.

Damn. John shoved the kettle back again. "She said it was just her and me," he added, turning back to his father and feeling suddenly unsure. "Is that…are you okay with that?"

Sherlock hook himself as if surprised. "It wasn't my idea for you to stop talking to your grandparents," he said slowly. "In fact, I believe I have asked you three times if you were sure."

John supposed that, in Sherlock's world, asking three times was the same as trying to reconcile them all.

"I meant…that it's just me and her. I could ask her-"

Sherlock held up a hand. "If and when I wish to speak to my parents, I will seek them out. I do not want them here. It was bad enough when we were vaguely getting along."

Vaguely getting along? John almost sighed. "You should talk to them-"

"You should talk to Mycroft."

No.

John looked away.

Behind him, Sherlock let out a long sigh and there was the sound of a laptop being closed. "Mycroft and I…" he let out an annoyed noise. "I do not need you to fight my battles. Especially not with Mycroft-"

"He threatened to take me away from you," John argued. "He called you a bad dad, he used me to hurt you-"

Sherlock groaned and buried his head in his hands. "You miss him," he said after a moment, lifting his head up.

"No I don't."

"That reply was far too quick to be believed," Sherlock snapped.

John looked away as traitorous tears threatened.

"Meet her on Sundays," Sherlock said after a moment. "And ask her about Mycroft and me, ask her about what happened after your mother left."

He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know if they'd been relieved or hadn't cared or if they'd been hurt.

But part of him did. Part of him, the Holmes part, was curious.

Sherlock stood and stepped close.

"I am not innocent in this, John," Sherlock said, cupping his head roughly. "I'm barely even hard done by."

John shook his head, not speaking until he was sure tears wouldn't fall out when he did. "They talk about it, about you and me and everything as if we need to be fixed."

John let himself be pulled close. "Ignore them," Sherlock said wrapping his arms around John. "There is nothing about you that needs to be fixed."

John rolled his eyes.

"Apart from your blind loyalty," Sherlock added after a moment. "No son of mine should be blind to facts."

* * *

Sunday morning his grandmother was in the café as she had promised, sipping coffee and reading a book.

"Is that any good?" he asked her as he stood by the chair.

She looked up. "A bit slow," she confessed as she plucked her reading glasses from her nose. "But a friend recommended it so I am determined to see it through. Tea?"

John shook his head. "Nah, I caved and got some milk on Friday so I've had loads."

Her baffled look reminded him that she hadn't known about the great milk standoff. With a shrug he sat.

"How is…everyone?" he asked.

"They're fine," she said with a nod. "And Sherlock?"

Fine was such an empty word, John thought. "He…thinks I'm being too loyal."

His grandmother smiled sadly. "So, tell me, how you are doing at school?"

* * *

Lucian had read the same sentence thirteen times and the damn thing still wasn't going in. Frustrated, he folded the newspaper up and thudded it onto the side table, rubbing at his forehead with his hand.

The front door closed.

For a moment he thought about picking the paper up and pretending not to be quite so on edge but…it seemed a little pointless. His wife would have had to be deaf, blind and stupid not to have realised how concerned he was with her meeting today.

"Well?" he asked as she came in.

"He had detention for complaining about having to do art homework," his wife said shaking her head. "On the first day back-"

"Bella-"

"He's grown," she said, sitting down. "And he and Sherlock are apparently battling over who buys the milk now."

"He's not…" Lucian wasn't exactly sure what he had been dreading. A pale boy who had turned to that dark clothing and eyeliner had been a slight worry. "He's happy?"

Bella sighed. "I…he's getting on with things. He misses you," she added. "He looked most annoyed when I avoided answering questions about you and Mycroft."

Oh…Lucian blinked at his wife. "And you did that because-"

"There is a very obvious way that he could find out the answers," Bella answered with a smile that reminded him suddenly of his youngest son. Despite the situation, Lucian felt himself let out a small laugh.

"And," Bella added. "Sherlock has told John he is being too loyal."

Lucian swallowed in surprise. "That's…for Sherlock that's…effort I suppose."

Bella nodded. "I thought so," she said brightly.

It was strange; he'd been so prepared that Sherlock would be encouraging John to continue this silence. To discover Sherlock had, in his own way, tried to encourage John was an odd relief.

Perhaps there was some hope after all.

* * *

Next Chapter: Uncle - Sherlock's not the only one who has a brother...


	24. Uncle

Uncle

There was a man with his mum.

John hovered, uncertain suddenly. Sherlock had dropped him off after a call came through about a body found in a locker at Paddington Station. It was the first time John had gone in on his own after Sherlock had signed him in at the gate.

His Mum looked up and blinked at him, then her gaze flickered to the man who turned.

John had no idea who he was but the man slowly smiled and turned back to his mum.

His Mum smiled, nodded and beckoned John over.

"Bloody hell," the man said as he turned back to John. "How can you have a teenager, Anna?"

"Time flies," she said with a sad smile. "How are you, sweetheart?"

John nodded, still not sure what to make of the strange man.

"Oh," she shook her head. "Sorry, this is…" she smiled looking suddenly happy. "This is your Uncle."

Huh?

"My brother," his mum said, picking up on his expression. "George."

Close up and, now he was looking for it, John could see they shared the same nose. And there was something of Walter lurking in George's chin and lips.

And he was tanned.

Been away?

They were both looking at him expectantly.

"Hi," John said awkwardly.

George smiled at him. "Hello," he said with a nod.

Helplessly, John looked at his mum.

"Come and sit down," his mum said with a wink. "And don't worry; our generation of the family was a complete disappointment."

George pulled a face. "I provided legitimate grandchildren and married."

"Three times," his Mum said shaking her head.

"I thought…" John hesitated. "I thought you guys-"

George laughed. "Got bored of that quickly," he said standing up. "Good to see you again, sis. And nice to meet you, John."

His Mum smiled and nodded.

The minute George left the room the smile fell from her face and she leaned back as if exhausted.

"So you don't get on?" John asked watching her.

His Mum pulled a face and leaned forward. "He…hasn't changed," she said slowly. "Shallow as a puddle. He'd be the first to admit it. You have five cousins," she added shaking her head. "Three failed marriages, two businesses ran into the ground and a 'retreat' for alcohol addiction…" she trailed off. "I thought he'd been bad enough before I left."

"He's older?" John double checked.

"Nine years between us," his Mum said with a nod. "Apple of Mum's eye. Dad would forgive him most things because he was a boy and utterly arrogant."

John watched her carefully. It was weird; both his parents had felt their older brothers were the favourites but at least Mycroft was…clever or successful. It must have been really annoying for his Mum to watch George be praised for being stupid.

"You don't like him?"

"I do," Mum said sadly. "I just…things that annoyed me about him annoy me more now. We've had very different lives. But," she said, shaking herself, "He means well. If you had to get to know a member of my family, he'd be the one I'd pick. And you never know it might be nice for you to get to know your cousins."

Cousins. John wasn't too sure about that idea. He'd quite liked being the only child.

"Well…where's he been?" John asked sulkily.

"Australia, working on marriage three," his Mum said with a sigh. "He's been out there for five years."

That would explain the tan then. "Wait," John leaned forward. "Do you want me to…" he faltered. "Like…talk to him?"

"I…" his Mum sighed. "You're having problems with your Dad's family. I just thought it might be nice to have another person in your life. And God knows he isn't the person to rely on in a crisis but he'll make you laugh." She looked sad. "And I think you need that."

John slumped his arms on the table and rested his chin upon it. "I'm not sad," he muttered.

"Sweetheart, you're not happy either. How are things going with your grandma?"

John shrugged. "Better," he said with reluctance. "She won't talk about Grandpa or…anyone else."

She flashed him a look. "Or Mycroft?"

John sat back and looked away.

"It's been nearly four months," she scolded. "Don't you think you've over-reacted?"

"He threatened to-"

"Oh darling he was trying to threaten your father, not you," his Mum said, sounding weary of the argument.

"He wanted to take away my Dad and I've already lost-" John broke off, trying not to think about it or look at his Mum.

She was silent.

"And…I'm so sick of people thinking I've been hard done by because I have you and Dad as parents," John said slowly, trying to not focus on the earlier argument.

"Your Uncle should not be the focus of that," his Mum said softly. "He's not the only one to say it and he won't be the last."

"No, he's the one who knew…" John pressed his lips together. "He knew…" God he hated this. The topic always made him want to cry. It was why he'd taken to sitting in silence when his father tried to bring it up. "He knew how I felt about…being…wanted-"

His Mum stood up and pulled him in close to her. "I hate this," she confessed. "You're old enough to make these decisions but…it was easier when you were little and did as you were told."

He buried his head in her shoulder. "I…I miss you," he whispered. "I love Dad but…everything has to have an answer."

She stroked her hand through his hair and just let him sit quietly, thinking and feeling.

* * *

"Did you ever meet my Uncle?"

Sherlock was briefly back in the middle of a case, checking the time every three minutes as he watched John eat the takeaway.

Sherlock looked up and then pulled a face. "Ah, George," he said with some distaste.

"You don't like him?"

"Useless," Sherlock dismissed.

"He is my Uncle," John scowled as he twisted his fork in the noodles.

"Funny, that seems to be an arbitrary defence."

John stood and strode off to eat up in his room. Five minutes later he heard Sherlock slam his way out of the front door.

* * *

"So…how long is it until you can buy me a drink?" George asked.

"Five and a bit years," John complained as his Uncle slid the diet coke to him.

"Mm," George said shaking his head. "I'll be keeping tabs on that," he said as John lifted the drink to his lips.

The coke tasted…weird. Pulling a face, John pulled back and studied the drink.

"You ever had a go with a JD and coke before?"

Alcohol? John blinked down at it. "No," he said hesitantly.

"Well, I think a boy needs to know what he likes to drink before he's legal. It's always good to try new things."

John studied the drink. Part of him was hissing at the idea; he was a few months shy of thirteen and everyone flagged up George's drinking habits. But…

He was so sick of everything being serious.

_He'll make you smile._

John took another sip.

"Good lad," George nodded approvingly. "My eldest wouldn't touch a drop."

George's eldest; one of the favoured cousins that John had never met. "It's a bit of fun," he muttered.

"Exactly," George grinned, toasting him. "Now, JD is a good start. How you finding it?"

"Weird," John said licking his lips. "But…not bad. It's getting better."

"Ah, whisky man, the Watson genes are strong," George offered with a wink and then leaned back as the waitress brought over his steak and chips.

Unsure how to take that, John took another sip.

"Did you want any?"

John shook his head.

"Ah, have some chips," George said, beckoning the waitress back with a snap of his fingers that made John wince. "Steak and chips for my nephew. Soon as you can," he added as he pulled out his credit card and shoved it in her direction.

"I-"

"It's responsible," George said as he sipped the red wine. "You need food to soak the drink up."

John felt his lips twitch at the idea that this was how George was responsible.

"So, how come you went to see mum?"

George dug into his steak. "She's my little sister. Mum and I had a row when I got back. Thank God I managed to miss Dad's funeral."

"You didn't want to go?"

George shook his head and picked up a chip. "No. Funerals aren't my thing and the old man was…stuffy. Besides, my ex-wife went and we shouldn't be in the same room together."

"Oh," John winced at the taste again as he sipped his drink. "You had a bad divorce then?"

George seemed to mull that over. "No, that was just…boring. She's an ice queen. Wouldn't do a single thing wrong. The second wife, Hannah, oh," George grinned. "That was brilliant. We got married within seven weeks of knowing each other," he said waving his knife. "Ended it eighteen months later, after Harriet was born. And God did we fight…" he leaned forward with amusement. "You know those films where the couple fight? They throw clothes out of the window, plates, have the neighbours complaining when they argue…and then when they make up?" he added with a lecherous wink.

John gaped. "You…wow," he said shaking his head. "I mean the Holmes family we…it's all very snippy. I can't imagine them throwing a plate."

"Jesus, even sniping is out of character for them," George said looking amused. "My dad and your grandpa were on an account together when I was…fourteen I think? Your Uncle was a few years younger and then your Mum and Dad were in the same year. We used to be all lumped together at office parties and balls. Your Dad was fantastic during them; I'd point him at a few people and he'd have them spluttering within twenty minutes."

John giggled at the idea. "So dad was like your super weapon?"

George burst out laughing. "Something like that. God the day you were conceived…my Dad had been complaining about the wine quality. He stood there, arguing with the host about the wine choice and then led a committee down to the cellar so they could all see his class and taste," he sniggered. "Instead he found your mum and dad up against the wine rack!"

Horrified and amused, John sunk down in the chair. "There was a group?" he asked.

George nodded. "He went purple," he said and gestured at John to move as his food was brought to the table. "I thought he was about to have a heart attack!"

John shook his head. "I can't believe they were caught like that."

"Oh it gets better. Sherlock suggested that they go for the '57 rather than the '43."

John hissed as he collapsed into giggles again. "Seriously? He was correcting Walter even then?"

"Your Mum helped. I think she gave up that the situation was salvageable and told Sherlock that the '43 was far more expensive and that Dad's taste in thing was limited to the price tag attached."

The chips were bloody good, John thought as he eyed up the steak that had been brought to him. "Dad once said they were marched to their rooms," John said, his voice raising in a question.

"Yeah, at the hotel," George confirmed. "The waiters were pissing themselves – I think they were pissed off at us. We can be an annoying bunch," he said, sounding unbothered by it.

"What about…when they found out. About me?"

George dipped his chip into John's sauce. "The only time I've ever seen your Grandfather hit my Dad. They squared up properly, it was brilliant. My Dad had to stay in the house for a week until the bruise went down…" he winced. "I think Anna was gutted about that."

"Grandpa hit Walter?" John frowned as he tried to cut his meat. "No-one's told me that before."

"Well, it was during the adult's discussion. Your Uncle was at Uni and Sherlock and Anna weren't included. Mother wanted me there to steady her nerves. And…you know…three against two!"

John munched on the steak that was brilliant. "Did he…stagger back?"

George lifted his drink. "Hit the floor," he said with glee.

Brilliant!

"Why did he hit him?"

"Er…I can't remember," George said scrunching up his forehead. "Might have been because Walter was insulting Sherlock or…ah!" he nodded, suddenly pleased. "Dad was saying it wasn't a big deal, having an abortion. Lucian walloped him one and said not to repeat that."

John paused.

Grandpa had hit Walter because…well…because of John? Before he'd even been born?

Huh.

Unsure of how to take that, John continued to eat and then giggled as George started regaling him with his dating habits.

* * *

_Staying at George's. It's late and he says it's fine. Am sending his number if you want to talk to him._

John fell into the bed as George put the phone on the table, after sending a second text with his number.

"Thanks," John slurred as he snuggled into the pillow.

"Well, I did get you drunk. Least I can do is keep you out of trouble."

* * *

His head was killing him.

Groaning, John opened his eyes and stared in confusion at the unfamiliar room.

He was going to be sick.

* * *

Thankfully, Sherlock was out when John made it home.

* * *

It had been fun. More fun than he had been a part of in ages; before Sherlock became serious and watched him constantly or before…before the summer.

"You got drunk?" Chris asked in awe.

"Shush," John looked over at the teacher on duty in the library. "Shut up, you could get him into trouble."

Chris shoved at the magazine he was pretending to read. "Why do you have such good uncles?" he muttered. "Mine's a banker and the other one is a doctor. They're useless."

"I don't think a doctor is useless," John pointed out.

Chris leaned over. "He told my dad that fizzy drinks might cause stomach problems. Dad didn't buy coke for weeks. Yours adds whiskey to it."

John grinned. "He was honest," he added, turning a page because it seemed like he should. "Finally, someone has been."

"Must be nice," Chris said softly. "I mean with Mum…Dad always tried to…mmm…soften the blow?"

"I get that," John said, stretching out, "But-"

Chris kicked him under the table and John looked down at the book as the teacher walked by. Waiting for a minute, John turned and glanced around to check he'd moved on.

"It's not the same," John said looking back at Chris. "I know I wasn't…wanted. It's like…I don't know. I just feel like everyone else has been lying. George…he just tells it as it is. No hidden meanings or subtle hints or double meanings." He traced a mark on the table. "I feel like the thick kid whenever Sherlock and Mycroft talk."

"Yeah," Chris agreed with a grin.

"Shut up," John said, kicking him.

* * *

At seven in the morning, Mycroft walked into the office, his cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other as he made his way to the desk.

"You're surely not doing legwork and taking your own coffee and newspaper to the desk."

"That says more about you than me that you think collecting a drink and a paper is effort," Mycroft replied absently as he avoided his brother and put the paper on the desk.

Oh.

Pausing, Mycroft hovered uncertainly, keeping his back to Sherlock. It had been four long, long months since they had last spoken face to face.

"Why are you here?" he asked, putting the coffee down carefully.

"George Watson is back," Sherlock said sounding utterly annoyed by it.

Mycroft let out an annoyed breath. "Really? Have the bars of London started to prepare?" he sat down heavily. "I take it he is still obnoxiously oafish."

"It would appear so. He got John drunk last night."

Mycroft felt his jaw drop. "He is twelve-"

Sherlock just shook his head and slumped in the chair. "I am aware of how old he is," he said in a surprisingly tired voice. "I am also aware that he and I are not getting on at the moment."

Mycroft couldn't help the sneer. "Really? Has he not said one word to you for four months as well?"

"You threatened to take him away-"

"It was an empty-"

"To a boy that has had one parent taken?" Sherlock asked with a glare. "To a child that still worries he can be dismissed at the drop of a hat. Reverse the logic, Mycroft, if social services took him from me then to John that meant he could be taken from us, that we could get rid of him."

Yes, Mycroft thought, keeping his mouth closed. He had worked that out. Too late. "Well…why are you here?"

Sherlock tilted his head back. "I…advice…" he said, sounding as if it were being dragged from him. "I can tell you all the reasons why John is suddenly throwing himself into a relationship with this new Uncle. And why he and I are having difficulties. But…" Sherlock closed his eyes. "If I tell him not to see George my concern is that John will dig his heels in."

"He is getting the boy drunk," Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock looked at him.

"You want me to interfere?" Mycroft asked with some disbelief.

"Yes."

Mycroft shook his head. "You…George Watson and I do not have a good history. I barely keep my temper with you."

Sherlock tilted his head. "I'm vaguely confused as to why you would attempt to."

"Ah," Mycroft nodded. "Yes, I can't imagine what it was about the last time I lost my temper that might make me wary."

"I can't imagine what it is that John is thinking after you and he have a disagreement in which he heard you imply his place in this family was negotiable and then you don't try to get in contact with him."

"Have you been talking to mother?" Mycroft asked trying to sort through the briefing documents.

"No."

Mycroft shook his head. "I am not doing your dirty work, Sherlock. You wanted John to yourself, you deal with it."

Sherlock stared at him in surprise. "I…" he sneered and stood up. "You have nothing to lose," he snarled.

Mycroft clenched his jaw. "I have no wish to risk losing that much again. He is your son."

Sherlock nodded. "Coward," he said, throwing the word at Mycroft like a gauntlet.

Mycroft didn't say a word.

* * *

"Sherlock," George greeted cheerfully. "How are you?" he said standing to shake Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock accepted it and used the hand to pull George close. "Why is my son coming home with a hangover?" he hissed in the man's ear.

"I'm helping him relax. Your boy's so tense-"

Sherlock tightened his grip, twisting slightly and smiled at George's sudden intake of pain. "You do not contact him again. Understand me?" he said, releasing the man.

George had always been useless when it came to standing his ground at something.

"Or?"

Or? Sherlock stared at him.

Surely the idiot hadn't found a spine on his travels?

"I mean…" George reached for his glass and took a sip. "That would be two Uncles you've taken from him. And threatening me? Do you think John would approve?"

Sherlock smiled. "Do not play this game with me. You are no-where near intelligent enough to attempt it."

George shrugged. "I gamble," he said with a smile as he sat. "I have nothing to lose; a few days a week with my nephew? It's nice. Getting to see Anna's boy; it makes me feel like I'm doing something right for once, but it's not something I'm too bothered by. What I'm liking more is that I am finally making Sherlock Holmes look hurt." He took a dramatic sip. "Never play against someone who has less to lose."

Slowly, Sherlock leaned down with icy calm. "If you hurt my son I will destroy your world."

"I'm not beating him up or making him cry," George said, rolling his eyes. "I'm making him laugh."

George said it like he was gifting John with gold. And, Sherlock thought as he tried to keep his temper in check, it was hard to remember the last time he had seen his son smile.

The sneer of triumph from George Watson made Sherlock clench his fist.

He despised this. First Mycroft, now George; he had no idea how to deal with people who used John against him.

But, as George sat back down, grinning with glee, Sherlock took a deep breath.

He was going to have to learn very quickly apparently.

And, even more frustrating, he was going to have to do it alone.


	25. Leg Work

Leg Work

Sherlock has his own way of dealing with the George issue.

* * *

There were a few ways to deal with the 'George' problem.

John would probably object to having his Uncle murdered. Or even maimed. Or beaten. Or hit.

So that option was out.

He could get strict. Sherlock could do that; he wasn't some pathetic, indulgent parent.

He was friends with his son though which, in Sherlock's mind, was a different kettle of fish entirely.

He could simply be more interesting than George.

Yes.

That would be easy.

Sherlock paused the thought as he stared at the ceiling. No alcohol, no drugs, no encouraging sex. John was twelve and Sherlock was eager to keep his son as young as possible in all things; the boy was growing up obnoxiously fast.

But he was aware that, to a twelve year old boy, being treated like an adult was possibly the only interesting thing in the world. Other than computer games and Sherlock was not encouraging-

Wait…

Sherlock smirked.

There was one thing he could do.

* * *

John woke up and it was light out.

It was a Tuesday in November, at seven o clock and it was light?

Freezing in horror, John stared at the window then launched himself at the alarm clock.

Shit!

Shit, shit, shit!

He hadn't set it. He hadn't set the clock. It was half past eight and form time had just started.

Shit!

Scrabbling up from where he had landed in a tangle of duvet covers and sheets, John stumbled to the wardrobe and tried to hunt down yesterday's shirt.

"Overslept?"

John rolled his eyes. "Yes. Don't start. I know you, you're probably about to say I should have some internal clock because relying on a battery is ridiculous-"

"From the display I've just witnessed you are clearly not concerned about being thought of as ridiculous," Sherlock replied from the doorway.

"I'm late," John whined, throwing the duvet at the bed as the shirt didn't seem to appear. "Have you taken my shirt?"

"What reason would I have to steal your clothes?" Sherlock asked, watching him with what John knew was amusement.

"Like I know half your reasons for doing the things you do," John muttered mutinously. "I wore it yesterday-"

"Ah. It may have walked to the washing hamper out of sheer desperation-"

"I have nothing to wear-"

"Then I suppose you shouldn't go to school."

John opened his mouth and then felt it drop open. "Seriously?" he asked suspiciously. "I don't have to go in?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I have a case. Either come with me and solve it or I will simply take you into school late. Your choice."

John deflated slightly. "I hate sitting in Lestrade's office. It's boring."

Sherlock smiled. "What if I said you were old enough for legwork?"

John stared, not daring to move in case Sherlock suddenly changed his mind.

"Seriously?" he asked eagerly. "Legwork? Like helping you interview people and chase suspects."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, pushing off from where he's been leaning against the doorframe. "You're a much slower runner than I am, it's hardly as if you'd catch them first."

John stuck his tongue out, trying not to show how delighted he was.

This was going to be brilliant.

* * *

_What are you doing? MH_

Sherlock glanced at the text as his son almost danced around the scene of the theft.

_I thought you had no interest in the matter. SH_

_I thought you were capable of behaving like an adult. MH_

Really? Sherlock seriously doubted that thought had ever crossed Mycroft's mind.

_We are bonding_ _SH_

_Bonding or avoiding your parental responsibilities. MH_

_When you face up to your familial duties so will I. SH_

Mycroft didn't reply.

* * *

As it turned out the calm, sedate theft of a thoroughly dull-looking painting turned into a murder. Staring at the security guard's portly belly and wide eyes, Sherlock sighed.

"Poisoned?" John asked, peering.

"Indeed," Sherlock said, starting to regret the plan. It was one thing to allow John to come on a case when the most dangerous thing that might happen was Gregson discovering that Sherlock had solved it within twenty minutes of the call that morning, and quite another when it turned out that either Sherlock had…assumed facts he shouldn't have or there were two criminals at work.

"But…" John tilted his head. "I thought…I mean the theft looked like it was professional…Uncle Jasper used to bitch that people would use a shit knife to cut paintings out of the frame and then just cut around the edges. That knife was good-"

Sherlock blinked and stared at his son.

"What?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, turning back to the body. "You are correct. So, either the theft was to cover this murder or the two or unconnected."

"Did he die before or after the theft?" John asked curiously.

"Before. Inconclusive either way."

A cheeky glance was aimed Sherlock's way. "Does that mean you don't know?"

"It means it is inconclusive," Sherlock replied glaring at his son. "I do not have enough data to reach a logical conclusion-"

"So you don't know?"

He hated that phrase. "I can make educated guesses," Sherlock muttered, reaching out to steer John out of the room.

"But you-"

Spare him from teenage delight in proving an adult wrong. "We have discussed the implications and connotations of good vocabulary. 'I don't know' implies someone without an idea. I have many ideas, I simply do not have the data to pick the correct one."

John nodded, even as that glint appeared in his eyes. "So you don't know which idea to pick?"

Next time Sherlock was simply leaving the child to languish at school.

* * *

He was missing something.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair as Gregson interviewed one of the staff at the old manor house that had been opened up to the public under that national trust.

"Grandma mentioned taking me here."

Why on earth would his mother think John would enjoy wandering around an old house filled with red rope? Had she met John?

Deciding not to dignify that with an answer, Sherlock said nothing.

"She reckoned at one point one of her great, great grandparents lived here."

Sherlock tilted his head and studied his son. "That simply shows you the lengths the woman will go to in order to get a day out. And people wonder where I get it from."

John peered at him with amusement. "In the portrait gallery there were a few of some of the Barrett family. "

"So?"

"Her maiden name."

Sherlock shrugged. "So?" he repeated.

"You would have been good as a Lord," John decided. "Crushing the peasants, killing those who were stupid-"

Despite himself, Sherlock felt a smile start to appear. "I still crush peasants, only I call them plebeians now."

John's head thudded back against the chair. "I don't get this," he confessed after a moment. "Why bother to kill the guard? He was harmless."

"Mm." Sherlock stared at the witness. "Go and find tea."

"Why?" John whined.

"Because I feed you, clothe you and put a roof over your head. It's the least you owe me."

John raised an eyebrow at that as he stood. "And I keep life from being boring. How much do you owe me for that?"

"I took you out of school," Sherlock sighed. "I can easily take you back-"

"Fine."

* * *

Lolling his head, Sherlock turned to stare out of the window at the grounds and at the allotment that was just a little way over. From the looks of it there had been some issue recently as many of the plants looked half dead.

Such a harmless sight-

Sherlock sat up.

"How do you get water?"

The manager blinked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"Water. How do you get it?"

"Through pipes-"

Sherlock waved a hand. "There must be an old system; houses like this would have enjoyed boasting about having the latest technology available. Is the system still used?"

"No," the manager said pulling a face. "Certainly not. Visitors could-"

"Not what I asked," Sherlock corrected. "I asked if the old water system was still in use. Can the staff access it?"

The manager seemed to mull that over. "I… in the kitchens maybe. We don't use it – there's a modern one by the office and it's only used as a display for visitors. Why would they-"

"Close to the guards' route." Sherlock turned to Gregson. "The guards will have been lazy. They'll fill the kettle from the nearest available tap-"

"I still don't see-"

"Look," Sherlock pointed out the window. "Look at the allotment. The plants are dead. Does the system-"

Tea.

Oh.

Horrified, Sherlock spun around and dashed after his son.

* * *

"It's just tea," John complained as Sherlock yanked the cup out of his hands. "They've even got Ansleem-"

"And weed killer from the looks of it. Buckets and buckets of the stuff," Sherlock argued. "The guard had drunk the tea all day. He was feeling ill, the last cup must have pushed him over."

John's eyes widened. "Wait…so I nearly…"

Sherlock put the cup on the table and glared at it. "They're testing now. The other guard already started to complain of feeling ill. Boiling the water would have strengthened the solution."

John sat down heavily.

Well…at least it was a more dramatic story than any John would have had with George.

* * *

"Poison?"

Sherlock swung the bow. John had agreed to go school today, joking with Sherlock that it didn't seem worth the risk to bunk off again.

"I hardly planned it," Sherlock argued as Mycroft walked in. "How was I to know that someone held a grudge against the allotment after being thrown off. Who in the world is so dull that they think that's a priority?"

"He nearly drank-"

"He didn't," Sherlock argued, pointing the bow. "I would not have allowed it."

"You practically ordered him to."

Sherlock yawned pointedly. "Who did you bribe for that information?"

Mycroft narrowed his gaze. "All of this because you would rather your son was in danger than hate you."

"When you procreate you can raise that dull devil-spawn however you wish-"

"Dull and devil's spawn?" Mycroft asked seeming bored. "Rather a contradiction there."

"The evilest thing in the world is boredom," Sherlock huffed. "Believe me, there is no contradiction."

Mycroft sighed and nodded. "Do continue."

Damn him, he'd lost track of the insult. "Go away."

But Mycroft showed no sign of leaving. Instead he seemed to draw in a long breath and nodded to himself. "You were right."

Sherlock froze, confused. "Is this a trick?" he asked suspiciously.

Mycroft sunk into the chair as he shook his head. "I should have talked to John, explained-"

"Yes. But he is not here right now-"

"I am aware of that," Mycroft said slowly. "And I will apologise to John. I intend to fix our relationship. But I warn you now, Sherlock, I will not play bad parent to your good parent any longer. And nor will our parents."

"I do not want you playing parent to _my_ son at all."

"Your last visit would beg to differ," Mycroft said smoothly. "How is George anyway?"

"Delighting in the opportunity to annoy me. Your fault," Sherlock muttered.

"Because everything in the world is?"

Sherlock swung the bow feeling decidedly…unsure.

As if sensing some… emotional impact, Mycroft sighed. "Surely you are not concerned George will usurp you? If these past months have shown us anything it's that John's devotion to you is unwavering."

"But not without cost," Sherlock replied, leaning back against the wall. "He is…this situation is not good for him."

And it hurt to admit that.

But the words seemed to make Mycroft soften slightly. "John is already meeting with mother. Perhaps we should all start taking similar small steps."

"He does have a life," Sherlock said.

"I said similar steps not the same ones."

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"You should speak to our parents-"

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "I think this is enough to be going on with for now, don't you?"

* * *

Next up:

Parent's Evening - When John received a not so glowing report Sherlock must rethink a few of his strategies of parenting John alone.

Presents - The members of the Holmes family all debate presents and the messages they send.

Turning 30


	26. Parent's Evening

Parent's Evening

"Why?"

Sherlock glanced over at his son who appeared to be attempting to do an impression of Sherlock himself on a boring day. John was laying on the sofa, school uniform rumpled and an arm over his face as he complained.

"You are a Holmes, are you not? We like opportunities to show off."

"No I'm not," John said as he lifted his arm off his face and glared. "My last name is Watson. "I don't have half your issues."

That grated a little. Pressing his lips together, Sherlock glared. "It is Parent's Evening, not Chinese Water Torture."

"What's the point?" John asked, dropping his arm back over his face. "I hardly have Grandpa and Mycroft bitching over my shoulder to make me do things. It's not like half of the subjects are important."

This attitude was becoming irritating. And it was galling to know that, for all his extensive talents, teaching was not one of them. Sherlock had never had to work particularly hard to understand anything and breaking the process down was…slow.

_I will not play the bad parent_.

Sherlock had dismissed his brother's words at first. He had far more important things to do than care if John were following the arbitrary rules set down by the school and completing his homework. He'd had no intention of going until an email had popped up a few days ago with John's Head of Year showing some concern about John's progress over the term.

His son was being put on report.

And, from John's attitude over Sherlock's change of heart and decision to go, it was starting to become obvious the school may have actually done it for a valid reason.

"School is important," Sherlock said uselessly.

John snorted. "That was embarrassingly unconvincing," he muttered.

"You will end up with detention," Sherlock added. "That's even more of a waste of time."

"So? That's the worst they can do. Who cares?"

"Stay then," Sherlock shrugged. "If you have no interest in defending yourself against the accusations-"

"Can I go see Uncle George?"

Absolutely not. Every time John saw the man his attitude grew worse and worse.

"Mrs Hudson needs you to go through her stock," Sherlock decided, thumbing his phone to send a text to the woman.

John groaned.

* * *

"You let him stay at home?"

"I didn't know you would be here," Sherlock replied as he stood awkwardly at the gates.

His father looked like he'd aged three years since the last time they'd seen each other. It was…uncomfortable to see.

"Mycroft was called to a meeting."

"I am capable of attending school functions without a babysitter," Sherlock snapped.

He waited for the typical reply about being a child and not being responsible but his father let out a long breath and looked away. "Two pairs of eyes and ears can be better than one."

How…odd.

Not at all sure what else to do, Sherlock nodded and they walked to the main reception.

"He's being put on report," Sherlock heard himself say.

"Mycroft mentioned," his father replied quietly. "Is it George?"

"He isn't helping," Sherlock muttered as he signed his name.

"John will see through him sooner or later."

"I believe that is still enough time for the man to cause damage," Sherlock said, turning to the main hall.

"What are John's targets?"

Sherlock glanced at his father curiously.

"He'll have targets to improve on," his father explained. "Mycroft talked us through it. Has John had his yet?"

Sherlock shook his head. "We are meeting Mr Murray now."

"Do you have any concerns?"

Ah, there, surely that was about to be the start of a disappointed, self-righteous rant. "Such as?"

"Is there anything you think the school is failing to do for John?"

Tempting though it was to do otherwise, Sherlock shook his head, swallowing back the prepared retort that had popped into his head.

He hated it when his father surprised him.

* * *

"You must understand," Mr Murray started carefully as they took a seat, "John is a pleasant young man and he is well liked by the staff but his attitude recently-"

"John has had a lot to deal with recently at home," his father added smoothly. "We are not saying it is an excuse, but you must understand it will have some effect when he is at school."

Mr Murray nodded. "We do understand that but, as you say, it does not mean he can get away with everything. John is turning up late to lessons, he is poorly organised, his homework is rarely on time or done to the best of his ability. His friendship group has shifted slightly-"

"So?" Sherlock asked, slightly baffled by why the last one was an issue.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see his father clench his hands and press his lips together.

"It is not a criticism," Mr Murray remedied diplomatically. "But this will have an effect on him."

New friends? Sherlock tried to bring up an image of the old friends. There was the tall boy and the slightly wet looking one…

"Can we take one issue at a time?" his father asked carefully. "I assume you have ways of dealing with him being late to lessons?"

Mr Murray nodded. "And I will say that John is usually on time for school in the morning. We are more than happy to deal with the late issue. Organisation…I could ask you to check his bags, to check his diary for homework. We can have teachers check that he writes it down or even email you to let you know that homework has been set."

Mr Murray looked at his father as he spoke and Sherlock could feel his temper start to rise. "He should learn to organise himself, he is not a child," Sherlock muttered.

A scathing look was aimed in Sherlock's direction. "How else would you suggest he learn to do these things unless they are reinforced? Detention does not seem to be working."

Sherlock said nothing; the idea of searching his son's bag and diary every single night weighing on him suddenly.

Every single night and morning.

God that would be tedious. Even if it was to get John back on track-

The direction of his thoughts made him shift as Mycroft's previous accusations echoed.

"Is he not understanding the homework?" his father asked after shooting Sherlock a strange look.

"According to his teachers, John understands a great deal more than he thinks he does. John tends to doubt himself when it comes to the more complex ideas and would rather not do it than appear to be struggling."

His father carefully didn't look at Sherlock.

"You can understand why this attitude may concern us. Very few people get things right on the first attempt-"

Sherlock rubbed at his forehead, already feeling a headache threaten.

"We can talk to him about that," his father said, cutting Mr Murray off.

"May I ask," My Murray said slowly. "The problems at home, are they likely to have affected his friendship groups?"

"I…John has recently started having contact with his maternal Uncle," his father replied after looking over at Sherlock. "The man is…irresponsible but he and John seem to get on well. What with the recent…" he seemed to hesitate, "Upheaval I believe my son is reluctant to risk John losing yet another person."

"But…I was given to understand there was a rift between you two. Has that not been sorted out?" My Murray asked, glancing between them.

Sherlock suddenly felt his father's eyes upon him.

Without even knowing why he did it, Sherlock stood up and walked out.

* * *

"Sherlock-"

He kept walking. The field was quiet and he needed quiet right now, needed to calm-

"Sherlock," his father called again. "This is John's future we are talking about. Did you not listen-"

"Did you not listen?" Sherlock snarled, whirling around to face the man. "I have never struggled with anything in my life and yet this, this, my son is the one thing I cannot seem to get right."

His father watched him. "You are here," he said quietly. "You are trying to fix it."

"Fix it? Which 'it'? The failure at school? The lack of self-confidence? The underage drinking? The illegal acts John had taken part in over the course of his life? The fact that I don't know his friends? That I have risked his life just so I don't feel like I'm losing him? Which?" Sherlock asked, hearing his voice rise and almost break at the end. "Which?"

His father stared.

"Mycroft said this would happen. Without you all I will ruin him-"

"What?"

There was a flat dangerous quality to his father's voice that Sherlock had rarely heard before. Baffled, he tried to work out exactly why it has been used.

"I am not deliberately attempting to-"

"Your brother's a…" his father broke off. "He has always known your weak spots." He seemed to take a deep breath. "You are not ruining John, Sherlock. Far from it. That boy is a credit to you."

Sherlock stared blankly. "I have not…Anna-"

"Do you not remember the boy that came to us two years ago? Quiet, terrified that he would be abandoned for one wrong comment? So desperate to be accepted that he would nod and smile at anything. The boy that didn't want to go to school, who was an outcast? Now look at him. He has confidence, Sherlock, he knows he is loved and he knows he has you. Whatever he thinks of me and your mother, of Mycroft even, that boy knows he has you. It doesn't even cross his mind anymore to worry that he might be thrown out again. And yes, he will have great difficulty if he tries to emulate you, but no more so than any other child who tries too hard to be like their parent."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze, unsure. "I have not taken full control of his upbringing."

His father rubbed his thumb over his wedding ring, something he only ever did when exceedingly nervous. "You could," he said, sounding very old. "Between you and Mrs Hudson, you could."

"I do not nag him to do his homework, or to follow useless rules. You and Mycroft-"

"You could."

Sherlock looked away, turning it over in his head.

"You don't have to," his father added, his voice wavering ever so slightly. "You never had to and I never begrudged that we did that. It was…a relief, to have a role. But you could do it alone Sherlock, you have proved that without a doubt."

"Why are you saying this?" Sherlock asked suddenly. "Do you not want John to turn to you-"

"No," his father said vehemently. "No. I love that boy, I adore him. But…" he seemed to think over his words. "You are aware that I have been going to therapy?"

God, were they really going to discuss his fathers' childhood traumas? Warily, Sherlock nodded.

"And…I have been told that it is common for parents whose children have their own children very young to feel as if they have to be a parent to their grandchild as well. I…I am your father and you are John's. This…should be my role. Parenting you."

Sherlock stared. "I…that is not required," he muttered, uncomfortable with the idea.

"Then may I ask what age you will stop being John's father? In four years when he is sixteen? When he goes away to university when he is eighteen? When he becomes a father? Will you just step back and stop caring?"

Clicking his tongue, Sherlock shook his head. "I like my son."

Wait.

That hadn't meant to sound quite so…pathetic? Certainly it had given his father far too much of a glimpse into his opinion on their relationship.

Horrified, Sherlock winced at his own words.

"And I like mine. Both of them."

Sherlock couldn't help the snort.

Clearly uncomfortable, his father shifted. "Perhaps…perhaps I haven't shown it enough."

Unconvinced, Sherlock looked away and to the building he had just left. "Mycroft…Mycroft thinks I fear being disliked by John."

"Every parent fears that, Sherlock. And every parent has to decide if the issue, if the benefit the situation might have to the child is worth being hated for."

"Was Anna's abortion?"

What was wrong with him today? He did not need to know the answer-

His father sighed. "I…I assumed you didn't want the baby."

"You never asked me properly."

"Then you may find you suffer the same weakness as I. I was willing to have you hate me. I wasn't willing to be wrong, to ask you. And that is something I will always regret."

Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft…" he looked down. "John is interesting to me. As a baby…I might not have-"

"You'd have been wrapped around that boy's finger the moment he drew breath."

Shocked, Sherlock looked up.

"You love that boy because he's him. Because he's yours and because of the way he thinks. I took that chance from you, that chance to be a father from the first moment. Tell me, Sherlock, if you were about to be homeless, if you had no money and no job, what would you do about John?"

"Give him to you."

Or Mycroft.

Probably Mycroft.

"Then you will always be better than Anna and me. We both put our pride before our child."

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"And I am pr-"

"Do not say it," Sherlock muttered, striding to the building. "That was more than enough sentiment for ten minutes, thank you."

"I am though."

Sherlock didn't turn around, not at all sure what to make of the conversation.

Instead, he turned his thoughts to the problem at hand.

* * *

"You have homework."

John looked up from the TV. "Didn't get enough time to write it down-"

Sherlock reached for the remote and turned the TV off. "If you do not write it down then I will set your homework."

John grinned at him. "Really?" he asked sounding eager.

Sherlock nodded. "Your first homework then was science," he said, looking at the text from the Science Teacher. "You can write an essay about the ways to differentiate between tobacco ash. You may use my website."

John's jaw dropped. "What?"

"1,000 words should do."

"What? That's…" John sat up looking panicked. "You're shitting me-"

"I am not shitting you. And your language recently has become appalling. If your vocabulary is that terrible then perhaps you should write out the entire thesaurus for a letter each time you swear."

John's mouth moved a few times. "This is crap."

"Now you're on B."

"Just because the school bitched about me-"

"That would be C completed as well."

"Or what?"

They stared at each other.

"Do not push this John," Sherlock said slowly. "I have been far too lax because you chose to not see your grandparents and Uncle. I have felt responsible and yet I have never stopped you from seeing them-"

"Yeah?" John stood up. "And I bet you haven't seen any of them since-"

"I saw Mycroft a week ago. And my father I saw ten minutes ago."

John froze.

"You have made the decision. And I will respect that choice but you will not be getting away with letting school slip, with letting your future crumble away, and you will certainly not be going out and getting drunk with George again."

John's eyes were growing bright. "You're just doing this because someone's pissed you off."

"Yes. You."

John blinked in hurt.

"You have far too much potential to waste like this."

"I don't care-"

"I do."

But he could see John's temper start to spring in. The fear and terror and hurt mixing down until all that was left was adolescent fury. "This is bullshit."

"D."

John's eyes narrowed. "Fuck you."

Fine.

* * *

They sat in a cell with the thesaurus and a piece of paper and a pen. John looked white as a sheet in shock and Sherlock found himself unable to meet his son's gaze.

Lestrade had, after a quick explanation, locked them in.

John had been writing for an hour. In silence. Apparently being marched down to the holding cells and thrown into one had been the shock he had needed to finally do what he had been told.

"How far are you?" Sherlock asked.

"End of A," John said in a barely audible voice.

"With any luck your handwriting should improve from this too. Practise does, after all, make perfect."

John didn't say a word.

"My father and I had a chat," Sherlock said quietly as he lay on the bunk and stared at the ceiling. "There are two things I have taken from that. The first is that I have always assumed I would fail at this. The second is that even if it makes you hate me, your wellbeing is too important for me to get this wrong. You are not my flatmate, you are my son and your future happiness will always be my priority."

John still didn't say anything.

"Your teachers have said that you will not try things in case you get them wrong. I do not know when you suddenly decided that but it stops now. Your strength has always been to fight back against overwhelming odds and to succeed. I absolutely refuse to let you lose that."

Silence.

"Your grandfather and Uncle will take far more interest in your homework, but be assured, I will always be the final-"

John turned and threw himself at Sherlock, tears streaming down his face.

Oh.

Sighing, he pulled his son close and let the boy cry.

"I don't know how to fix it," John sobbed into his shoulder. "You didn't tell me I could fix it with them. I thought-"

Sherlock pulled John to him as close as he could. "You thought what?"

"I thought…we had a fight."

Sherlock peered down. "You thought that meant they'd stay angry with you? That they wouldn't forgive-"

John nodded.

Angry at himself, Sherlock shook his head. "John-"

"Mycroft and Grandpa never…And Grandma never talks about them so I thought…I thought…I said I was on your side and-"

Sherlock rocked the boy.

"And you…I thought…you stopped telling me off. I thought you were angry with me-"

"If I am angry with you I will tell you," Sherlock muttered. "I do not do passive aggressive, John. It bores me senseless."

John only tightened his grip on Sherlock's shirt, tears soaking the front and fists wrinkling the back.

"Understand one thing John," Sherlock said, tipping his son's chin up. "There is nothing that would make any of us turn our back on you."

"Really?" John sniffed. "But Mycroft and Grandpa-"

Sherlock nodded, laying his cheek on John's hair. "Nothing," he said seriously. "They both adore you. They will always be willing to listen to you." He considered it for a moment. "I know…we are not the easiest family-"

John snorted. "Could make an Olympic sport out of the way you fight."

Possibly. "But we all care about you, John. Your well-being is the one thing we do agree about."

His son snuggled closer. "I…how do you fix it?" John asked quietly. "I don't…it'll be awkward."

Yes. "We'll work it out," Sherlock said slowly. "Together. We will work it out, John."

And, under his hands, he could feel the sigh of relief leave John.


	27. Boxing Day

_Boxing Day_

* * *

Boxing day dinner was…weird.

Mainly because it was Boxing Day dinner. For the past two years John's grandparents had always insisted on them going over for Christmas Day. This year he and Sherlock had spent the day together; he'd even got Sherlock to watch two Christmas films.

He'd complained the whole way through, mind. Criticised every aspect of them as they'd tucked into their Chinese.

It had been an awesome way to send Christmas. Now, though, it was the following day and it was the first time since their fall out that he'd been in his grandparents' house. It was strange how much he'd missed it. He could still remember the first few months they'd been forced to go and hating the formal setting and the unsettling feeling that he might knock something over at any point, cost them thousands of pounds and get walloped for it. Yet, at some point and without him realising it, the house had become…safe.

Even the dining room where that horrible dinner had happened was a welcome sight; elegantly made up with its gleaming cutlery and glasses.

And the food was better now. Pate with toast and a hopeful salad to the side, then gammon with crispy potatoes.

Sherlock, at some point, moved the wine from John with a pointed look.

As if. Wine was gross.

The other thing that was really weird was Sherlock and Grandpa. Every time Sherlock looked as if he were spoiling for a fight, his Grandpa would take a deep breath and give him nothing to butt up against.

It was genius.

On the whole, Grandpa had been a lot calmer anyway.

* * *

_Five weeks earlier._

Grandma had arranged it that they would meet in the park. John had a feeling that, despite how bored Sherlock seemed when talking about the idea, he had been followed and there was a pair of grey eyes watching him somewhere. It was pointless looking; he'd never see Sherlock but, all the same, John could feel his gaze.

He didn't want to sit down at the small café they'd agreed to meet specifically at. Sitting down would mean looking as if he were waiting, of Grandpa approaching him when he felt like it. Instead, John lurked by the trees, a clear view of the entrance as he waited.

At five to eleven, five minutes earlier than they had agreed to meet, Grandpa walked through the gate. He and Sherlock liked their long coats, John thought with a fond smile as he watched. His dark grey hair was ruffled from the wind and he was still straight backed.

John watched his Grandpa as he scanned the outdoor seats of the cafe and felt a small pang as his Grandpa's shoulders dropped just a little in disappointment. His stride was normal as he walked to the tables but then he paused, looking around and then turning to look back at the entrance.

Grandpa hesitated three times before picking a seat. In the end he went for one that allowed him to see the entrance to the park and shook his head when a woman came over to him.

Then he stripped off his gloves, hesitated and went to put them back on again. Then he tossed them on the table and rubbed at his forehead.

He was really nervous.

What was he meant to do now? If he walked over it would be obvious he'd been watching. If he waited he might be late and Grandpa might think he was playing games.

Maybe he'd get out a paper. Though it didn't look like he'd brought one-

"Just walk over," Sherlock said behind him.

"But-"

A hand stroked through his hair roughly. "He's so nervous he won't notice," Sherlock pointed out softly. "And you could walk over wearing earrings and eyeliner, he'd still be eager to talk to you."

John pressed back, feeling strangely nervous. What if…what if Grandpa looked at him in his short bomber jacket and jeans with scruffy trainers and thought better of it-

"Come on," Sherlock said with a sigh as he put a hand on John's shoulder.

Together they walked over, Sherlock's hand a comforting weight.

Any worries he had about Grandpa fell away the moment they were spotted. Grandpa's eyes darted between them and he smiled fondly, as if pleased by the picture they made.

"One grandchild," Sherlock said as they approached. "Would you like to put him to his full use and make him get a coffee for you?"

Grandpa tore his eyes away from John and looked up, puzzled. Whatever he saw in Sherlock's face made him blink and nod. "A…latte would be wonderful, John," Grandpa said with a gentle smile.

Not sure why Sherlock wanted a word with Grandpa, John nodded and darted off before pausing and glancing back at Sherlock. "Do you…?"

"Small," Sherlock said after a moment's look at him. "Something not utterly foul if possible."

The familiarity of it made John smile just a little. With a quick, awkward smile at Grandpa he fled for the coffee.

When he returned with the tray, Sherlock had sat down; he and Grandpa were speaking in quiet tones.

"Here you go," John said placing the tray down carefully and sitting-

In the seat in between Sherlock and Grandpa.

Momentarily nervous, he glanced at his father.

"So mother has been frequenting cafes that do baked beans on toast," Sherlock said as he took a sip of his coffee.

"She has been in such places before," Grandpa said with a smile as he blew on his latte. "We had our first date in one."

Seriously? Baffled at the idea, John turned to look at his Grandpa. "You took Grandma for-"

"Breakfast."

John felt his eyes widen.

Catching his look, Grandpa laughed. "Not like that," he said. "She wouldn't give me the time of day. Breakfast was the only thing I could wrangle from her."

"Grandma made you buy her breakfast?" John asked, amazed by the idea that his Grandparents hadn't just had some easy…courtship? That sounded like it could be the right word.

"For five weeks," Grandpa said with some humiliation. "Then we progressed to lunch."

John felt his eyebrows rise in amazement. "How long did it take to get dinner?"

"On our own?" Grandpa leaned back as if working it all out. "Seven months?"

John burst out laughing and turned to-

He'd gone.

John looked around the park hopefully, wanting to see Sherlock somewhere but the man had vanished.

"Less nervous?" Grandpa asked gently.

John looked back at him and nodded slowly. "Feels strange," he said hunching his shoulders.

"Very," Grandpa agreed. "I never thought you and I would fall out."

He didn't want to say sorry; he wasn't exactly sure that he should. But…he didn't want to fight. He didn't want to not talk to his Grandpa.

And he definitely didn't want to be not talking with Mycroft still.

Not sure what to say, John just shrugged.

Grandpa sighed and pushed the cup away from him so that there was nothing in between them. "Talk to me," he suggested gently. "Tell me what…what upset you."

John stared at the table, feeling suddenly miserable.

Opposite him, Grandpa dropped his head slightly and let out a long breath.

"If you don't tell me…" Grandpa shifted in his chair. "The last thing I want, John, is for this to ever happen again."

But…it sounded stupid. Even in John's head. Unfair even.

Grandpa waited.

"I just…" John didn't dare look at his face. "I get it," he said. "I do, I get that it wasn't about not wanting me it was…more about Dad. I…" he bit at his lip, trying to work out how to say it. "Just…sometimes it's weird knowing that and yet…" Unsure, he risked looking at Grandpa's chin. "I get worried that…I think Sherlock thinks you like me more than him. And sometimes…I nearly wasn't born because you picked him and that's what you're meant to do and other times I…I don't know how to…"

His Grandpa sighed and looked away. Worried, John lifted his gaze properly, waiting for the outcome.

"I love my sons," Grandpa said quietly, still staring out at the park. "Always have, always will and I am proud of them, John. But…they're both so clever, so independent. They never….When I pictured being a father I pictured helping with homework, talking about sports, being at matches. And I would never swap my boys but you…you give me a glimpse of what I wanted years ago. You need help with things, you want advice. You enjoy sports and team work. You can be terribly lazy like a typical teenager. It's…after how badly I did with my boys you are a gift."

John stared at him, hoping beyond all else that it was okay to be pleased about that.

"Do you worry that I will come between you and your father?" Grandpa asked, turning back so that his gaze caught John's.

No. John shook his head. "I worry…I just don't get it sometimes. Everything seems so muddled and it just seems…I don't get how it can be fixed."

Grandpa tilted his head in a very Sherlock way and smiled fondly. "That's because it isn't your job," Grandpa said in a gentle voice. "You are the child-"

John opened his mouth on automatic to protest-

"-whatever you want to believe, John, you are still a child," Grandpa argued without letting John even start the sentence. "And whatever issues your father and I have we have both agreed to keep between the two of us. We have both agreed that your wellbeing is more important than anything and we will make an effort."

John pulled a doubtful face that made Grandpa laugh.

"Dad said…he said you'd apologised. About what happened with me."

Grandpa looked a little wary suddenly.

"I don't get…" John shifted in his seat. "I got when you said that you'd asked and he'd said no. I just…did you know he was lying-"

"No," Grandpa said fiercely, leaning over to cup John's face. "Never think that, John. Never. If I had thought for a second…" he trailed off and shook his head. "My boy…being a parent sometimes means that to be a good parent you have to abandon all ideas that you have to be seen as right."

John squinted up in confusion.

"I could argue with your father until I was blue in the face," Grandpa explained, rubbing his thumb gently against John's cheek. "And what would it achieve? I want a relationship with you and with Sherlock and I want that more than I want Sherlock to…" he trailed off. "More than I want to be proved right. Your father," Grandpa sighed and dropped his hands. "Your father adores you. He loves you more than anything in this world and he would do anything for you. And he will never be able to accept that he nearly lost you before he had a chance with you. Never. He needs someone to blame."

John shifted in his chair.

"I don't want you in an awkward position," Grandpa added slowly. "I realise…but you should know that you and Sherlock and Mycroft will all come first. Your welfare. And that means whatever it takes. Even if it means you hating me."

"I don't hate you," John said with a huff. "And…" he turned the idea over in his head. "That must be hard," he said after a while.

Grandpa was watching him carefully. "Nowhere near as hard as you think." He took a sip of coffee. "Your father was a child when he had you. He was scared and stupid and that doesn't affect how he feels about you now. And…we can play the blame game all day but…it's pointless. You are here and…" Grandpa shook his head. "I dread to think of life without you, John. I truly do. Having experienced a hint of it again…I have no wish to ever go back."

The world swum and John grit his teeth together in horror as he felt himself edge towards tears. Strong hands wrapped around him as Grandpa stood and held John tightly.

Safe.

* * *

_Boxing Day_

Presents were going to be a nightmare.

Edging into the room after dinner, Sherlock watched his son closely. The careful steps they had all taken over the past five weeks to settle John had done its work, he thought as the boy laughed at Sherlock's parents.

Opposite, the Christmas tree twinkled as it was hung with all of its ornaments, a little less structured than usual. Thirty seconds of staring at it had been enough to determine that his parents had done it themselves this year.

Strange really. There was even a few wonky decorations that stirred faint, almost deleted memories at the back of Sherlock's mind. Decorations he and Mycroft had made as children.

John had never-

Cutting the thought off, Sherlock turned his attention back to his child.

And his father.

* * *

_Four weeks earlier_

"You are playing me," Sherlock sneered.

His father shook his head. "I am choosing my priorities with more care," he argued calmly.

He wanted to dismiss the idea, to scorn it and walk away having won yet another argument but his son's relieved face last week made him hesitate, reluctant to risk tears again.

"Was what you said about Anna also choosing your priorities?"

His father shot him a look. "No," he said. "I will be grateful to that girl for the rest of time for going ahead with the pregnancy and I can certainly understand how, after all that, she would have been reluctant to lose the one thing she had fought for but…" his father drew in an annoyed breath. "I cannot and will not forgive her for letting my grandson spend a moment living on the streets like some beggar child. Did she think we were such ogres that we would turn her away or take John from her? And, even if it were the case, was that more important than ensuring John had a roof over his head?"

Sherlock looked away.

"For all your faults," his father continued. "I sincerely believe you would walk away if you thought John would be better off."

Maybe.

"And what Anna did," his father continued, "is not good parenting. That's romanticising. What if you hadn't been there that day, Sherlock? What if you have never found out about John? Where would that boy be?"

Foster home. Runaway.

Dead?

It wasn't worth thinking about.

His father sighed. "Any other arguments?" he asked quietly. "Anything that you think is worth arguing over? Worth tearing each other apart to prove we're right? Worth upsetting John for?"

Priorities.

John.

"No," Sherlock decided. "No."

His father nodded.

* * *

_Boxing Day_

"Since when did you start drinking coffee?" Bella demanded of John as he followed her in. Across from Lucian, Sherlock looked up and over at him, their minds clearly drifting to the same problem.

George.

"It's good," John was arguing. "It wakes you up."

"You like tea," she scolded.

"Well…yeah," John said, "But I like coffee after dinner."

Really? When had that happened. Across from him Bella looked equally baffled.

It was frustrating to have missed out on such changes.

"No," Sherlock announced into the silence decisively as he glanced at the clock. "It's too late for coffee."

No?

That had sounded…incredibly parental, incredibly normal.

John stopped and looked for a moment as if he would argue.

"I have Lestrade on my phone," Sherlock threatened. "Do you have any idea how busy they are this time of year?"

Though the threat made no sense to him, it seemed to make John relent. And it was the kind of relenting that occurred when the threat had been previously carried out. Approving, Lucian nodded at Sherlock and was immediately amused at the squirming look Sherlock shot him.

"We have to wait," Bella said as Sherlock checked his watch. "I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Ah yes.

Mycroft.

The current idiotic son.

* * *

_Six weeks ago_

"You said what to your brother?"

Lucian stared at his eldest son, relatively sure that he hadn't lost what sense he was born with. Mycroft's lips pressed together and he shook his head. "It was heat of the moment."

"You know," Lucian said, following his son around the desk. "You know how much it used to hurt you when Sherlock focused in on your weaknesses, how much it stung. And now-"

"As I recall, Sherlock didn't stop, despite you scolding him," Mycroft replied stonily.

"And as I recall you are not teenagers anymore," Lucian snapped. "Do not start."

Mycroft sat down at his desk. "John has agreed to see you then?"

"John is twelve years old and, according to your brother, has been under the impression both of us are angry with him."

Mycroft looked down at his work and then sighed and closed his eyes.

* * *

_Three weeks ago_

Lucian blinked as his door slammed open and his youngest son appeared in the living room, pacing almost violently.

"What-"

"He is a moron. A fat moron," Sherlock hissed as he paced. "How did you do it?"

Lucian glanced down once at the fascinating article he'd been reading and then sighed as he folded it up, resigned to his fate. "What have I done?" he asked, trying to keep his tone simply curious.

"Done?" Sherlock pulled a face. "I meant that you talked to John like…you put him at ease. Mycroft is…" Sherlock shook his head and paced a little more. "You were nervous, as nervous as he was and yet you managed to not make it painfully awkward. And they had a better relationship."

Look past the actual words.

"I am not and was never cripplingly shy."

Sherlock stopped and glared at him. "Mycroft can talk Kings to death. And purposefully. He's hardly-"

"Personal relationships have never been your brother's strong suit. He likes rules. He likes power games," (though how, after what had happened to him, Lucian would never know), "This? Mycroft is far too aware of how important the interaction with John is and there are no rules he can follow or bend."

Sherlock threw himself into a chair, drumming his fingers on the arms. "Tell him to stop then," he argued. "My son has spent the rest of the afternoon curled up moodily on the chair watching nonsense."

Lucian let out a long sigh. "Time," he started to say and then resisted the urge to roll his eyes when Sherlock groaned in frustration and tipped his head up to the ceiling.

"I can offer you no other solution," Lucian said as he watched Sherlock. "Mycroft will simply need to relax."

Or John.

"Dangerous situations can make people bond quick-" Sherlock tipped his head back down and stared at Lucian.

No.

Sherlock slumped in his chair, apparently coming to the same conclusion. "It wouldn't have to be very dangerous," he muttered sulkily. "And it would be quicker."

"Given your definition of a normal day I dread to think what 'just a bit dangerous' would be."

"How droll," Sherlock said as he stood up. "I despise this plan," he said, as if Lucian needed to be informed of such facts.

"It's your only option," Lucian said.

"I despise that too," Sherlock huffed as he left.

That had been…unusual. Turning, he looked at the other doorway as Bella appeared looking bemused.

"Was that our youngest son asking for advice?" she asked with a smile as the front door slammed shut again.

Despite everything, Lucian felt himself smile. "Apparently so."

* * *

_Boxing Day_

The bell went.

Mycroft.

John looked over as Grandma smiled at him and went to get the door. Nervously, he looked over at Sherlock and Grandpa, remembering the last awkward meeting.

"Shall we have a game of chess?" Grandpa asked, stirring himself.

No, John shook his head. There was a look exchanged between Sherlock and Grandpa that he couldn't quite work out.

The door closed and-

Just Grandma.

Puzzled, John looked over at Sherlock who had stood, an angry look on his face.

"There's a big problem at the office," Grandma explained. "He just wanted to drop your present round-"

She broke off as Sherlock stormed to the door.

"Sherlock, don't-" Grandma started, moving to get hold of him. To John's surprise, Grandpa stood and followed him out, brushing a hand through John's hair as he walked to the door.

Startled, John stared at Grandma.

"Shall we watch a DVD?" Grandma offered after a moment.

John nodded.

* * *

Lucian nearly screamed bloody murder at his youngest son as the moron stepped out in front of the car.

Thankfully, the driver stopped instantly and Sherlock wasted no time striding around to the door and yanking it open, holding it in a demanding manner.

"-be late-"

"Then get out quickly," Sherlock hissed into the car.

By the time Lucian got to the car, Mycroft was easing out. He was tired, anyone could see that and the excuse seemed unlikely to be a complete lie.

"You do not do this to John," Sherlock shouted, jabbing a finger at Mycroft.

"I came to give him a present-"

"He would have preferred a hello."

Mycroft looked away, shaking his head. "I am not in the mood for this-"

"It does not need to be perfect," Lucian said softly.

Both his sons turned to him in surprise.

"You're putting far too much pressure onto the situation," Lucian continued. "Think about how you bonded with John the first-"

"I don't know," Mycroft almost exploded at him. "I have no idea how it happened. Do you not think I have tried to-" he broke off and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "I have a meeting. I should be there now."

Sherlock sneered at him, turned on his heel and stormed back to the house.

Lucian watched his eldest son's expression as it fell even further. "Get some sleep," he suggested softly. "Think of an activity to divert you both, to give you something else to talk about."

Mycroft shook his head. "He doesn't need me," he said quietly. "Last time, John needed someone to rely on. Someone who didn't row over his head. This time…Sherlock's no longer showing obvious deficiencies. I am surplus."

Lucian blinked at him, startled as Mycroft nodded and got back into the car without another word.

* * *

Back in the house, Lucian stood in the doorway, watching as Sherlock gave John a playful shove out of the way, settled into the corner of the sofa and then pulled John back over.

Two years ago Sherlock would never have willingly spent the day with them, almost pleasantly. Granted, he hadn't been perfect but it was far better than Lucian had ever expected.

Perhaps Mycroft had a point, he thought as John leaned his head into Sherlock's shoulder, giggling at whatever Sherlock had said, the earlier tension ebbing from him.

No. He'd seen John and Mycroft together, seen how easily they bonded. It hadn't been because Sherlock had faults as a father.

Mycroft needed to understand that. And soon, before too much damage was done.

* * *

Next Chapter: First Case

AN: Those who are waiting for One Fixed Points updates - it should be up before the end of this week and the fic will be 37 chapters in total :)


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